


Light

by editionj



Series: Light [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Becomes AU after season one, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Gay Panic, Heavy Angst, I Blame Tumblr, I actually haven't read the comics oops sorry, M/M, Mattimir, Post-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vladimir Ranskahov Lives, does that even make sense, for everything honestly, i mean he's catholic so, not the comics, self-homophobia, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editionj/pseuds/editionj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt’s ears pick up the accented voice and it’s familiar, but it’s on the backburner of his mind, because the only thing he’s stopped for at that moment is that for a brief second, shorter than a second really, he could see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll suck. Someone pulled me onto the Daredevil mattimir train and now I can't get off.
> 
> I haven't written fanfiction in five years. And I've somehow become mattimir trash.
> 
> Like I said, ya'll suck.
> 
> Prompt that I based this off of: "I want a Au where Matt’s blindness is somehow cured and the first thing he sees is Vlad’s face." - bloggingnstuff on Tumblr
> 
> Note: This all takes place after season one, so there's spoilers. It's not really an AU, but more canon-compliant really. There's also some homophobia in here, but it's not super blatant. He's pretty Catholic so I wanted to include an inner turmoil rather than a turmoil with just his blindness. 
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing [celebrianofimladris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris).
> 
> Chapter titles are from Black Sun by Death Cab for Cutie.  
> Enjoy!

Matt wakes up to blackness, as he does every morning. Sometimes, he still expects to open his eyes and see again, but it never happens. He has to shake off the brief confusion every time it occurs. He shuts off the alarm, fumbling slightly for it, and groans. He rubs his face and eyes and pulls himself out of the warm cocoon of his bed. As soon as his feet touch ground, his toes curl, at the coldness of it. He feels for his slippers and jams his feet into them as he finds them.

He heads to the bathroom to freshen up, and after relieving himself, stands in front of the sink, imagining for a few seconds what it would be like to see again. His hand reaches out to touch the wall where the mirror would be. He can feel the glassy surface in his memories. But right now, at this moment, all he feels is the the plaster and the roughness of the paint. 

Matt sighs. He doesn’t usually allow himself this… weakness, this guilt, whatever this is because all the memories come rushing back and he finds that he’s still dealing and still working through guilt. It’s still his fault that his father is dead, still his fault, and no amount of grief and forced penance in the form of avenging his father’s death helps alleviate the guilt. Well, it actually has a little. But he doesn’t have time for this mental game of back and forth. His fingers curl against the wall, and he allows himself a light tap with his fingers. He finishes the rest of his routine.

By the time he’s left the apartment, he has ten minutes to get to work (he has his phone read off the time to him) and he nods to himself as it’s enough time to get there.

He begins walking, paying close attention to his surroundings. He hears snippets of conversation:

“…I need to get him a present but I don’t know what…”

“…I was like, I know right‽…”

“…The walls should be green…”

Sometimes he does this as he walks, to stretch his abilities to be of use farther, to include a larger circular area. It’s a good exercise, and it doesn’t leave him very drained, so he continues with it. Of course he feels for curbs, with his trusty walking stick, the fifth one in his collection (he knows this because of the little indent near the handle from throwing it into the dumpster when he heard a man attack a woman in an alleyway—grabbing the stick afterward had been a slight issue), but this is a thought at the back of his mind as it always is. He can usually feel the whoosh of cars in front of him, and hear them anyway so it’s an extra caution.

As he walks, he thinks about what Foggy and Karen might be doing. Probably flirting as they often do. He always hears them flirting when he’s just out of reach, and he can hear their increased heartbeats when they speak to each other about something unrelated to work. ‘ _They really should just get together already_ ,’ Matt thinks. But he knows from the way Foggy speaks to her—and his heartbeat—that he really likes her and that he probably doesn’t want her to be just another quick fuck, not like Marci from Landman and Zack. 

Matt thinks of the other expenses of the office and how they’ll be bringing in more clients now that they’ve taken down Fisk. He feels vindication rush through him and a smug smile makes its way onto his face. At this very same moment, someone’s shoulder crashes into him—odd since he can hear how close people are to him—but he stops completely for a different reason, even after the person manages a, “Sorry.”

Matt’s ears pick up the accented voice and it’s familiar, but it’s on the backburner of his mind, because the only thing he’s stopped for at that moment is that for a brief second, shorter than a second really, he could _see._  

He saw the sunlight for a brief second, the world bright around him, a building across the street, some people walking by. And it was in _color._ At the moment, his world is on fire again, as if God granted his wish of giving anything to see the sunlight again (what did he _give?_ ), but only granted it for a millisecond. He cannot see God as being this cruel, but at this moment, his heart twists in pain and the devil inside believes that He can. 

Matt laughs bitterly, unable to calm the turmoil inside. Briefly, Matt thinks that to outsiders, he must look like a crazy man, unhinged, just standing there looking more than a little resentful, but he feels no desire to save face, not when all the foundations of his being have cracked. He’s not even sure he wants to go through today.

Belatedly, he realizes that he only encountered the light after a bump on the shoulder, and Matt freezes. He turns back time and searches for the voice, its sounds, in his mind. When he finds it, he replays it once, twice, and by the third time, he loosens his shoulders (he doesn’t remember tensing them) as it dawns on him. The voice belongs to a particular man, a crime lord he believed was dead, was almost _sure_ he was dead.

Matt laughs again, at the utter shock of Vladimir’s existence. Must’ve been a wiley bastard, that he somehow escaped the tunnels. And now there was a new worry to cradle: what side was Vladimir on and would he be causing more trouble in Hell’s Kitchen?

Matt liked it better when he knew that all the loose ties were tied up. So, to tie them up again, he would have to pay the crime lord a visit. Matt begins walking again, wondering how long he’d been standing still.

‘ _And touch him,’_ his mind helpfully supplies, almost greedily, ‘ _so that you can see the light again.’_

His insides curl in discomfort at the thought, especially since he doesn’t remember showing any interest in men in the past. But maybe it doesn’t have to be like that.

‘ _Then what does it have to be like?_ ’ he snaps at himself. 

They can’t be friends, they can’t be lovers—they have too much history. Matt isn’t even sure Vladimir swings that way, and before today, he didn’t even know he swung that way—Does he swing that way? He’s never really had chance to discover. He usually sticks to his ideals of being a good Catholic boy, which obviously does not encourage homosexuality.

And although he has no qualms about others’ sexualities and homosexuality specifically, he never guessed this would be an issue he would have to deal with. His religion usually answered questions like this for him, not to mention help him deal with his blindness, which many of his partners couldn’t deal with.

Love was simple for Matt. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t. There would be women—attractive women—and then there wouldn’t be. Claire was the closest he had come to a relationship, and even then, even then she wasn’t sure if she’d stay.

And why hadn’t this occurred in the past? The way he’d practically straddled Vladimir in the warehouse? There was an ample amount of touching there. Matt waits for the revulsion of his own actions to pass over him, for being so far from his teachings, but it never comes. He feels nothing (not even lust, he notes carefully) but surprise and he wonders why he never went through a crisis such as this earlier. This is perhaps because of how much he had invested in studying rather than partying as his counterpart, Foggy, did. How much had he really missed out on? How much had he really missed being blind? His chest twists, right near his sternum, and he feels anguish radiate from his center.

Matt reaches the front door of the building that will eventually lead to his office with a sort of trepidation he hasn’t felt for a long time. He hasn’t felt this way since he first lost his sight and it scares him almost to the bone that a brief glimpse of light could derail and devastate him like this. He isn’t sure exactly what he wants anymore, to go to Vladimir and glimpse the light again (he feels the devil in him surge toward this, as a good nab of power) or keep himself away to keep his sanity together (his own morality and moral compass urge him toward this). Matt feels himself pull apart again, two opposites, like he did when he attempted to decipher whether to kill Fisk or not. He doesn’t know what he’ll choose this time, and as he reaches the door of the office, he decides to file it away for another day, because now, now it’s time to work. But even as he walks in to the sounds of Karen’s cheery, “Good morning, Matt!” he still feels the turmoil roiling his blood, like ocean waves that never stop crashing onto the shore. He begins to understand that this disquiet, this unease will never fully leave him. He is Daredevil, after all. And that, that alone makes him paste his smile on harder than before.


	2. Whiskey in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are man I crash into this morning,” Vladimir states.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt to the max. Here are some beautiful crying men for you.
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing [celebrianofimladris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris).

Matt’s lack of usual stoicism is duly noted by Foggy and even Karen, who have both asked repeatedly whether Matt is feeling okay. He shrugs off their worry each time, and manages to hide his turmoil well enough that they stop questioning him, but he can still feel their worry permeating the air. It only serves to toy with his patience, but he deals because Foggy and Karen are the only two friends he really has and he’s still glad he has them. He knows there’s still ripples in both relationships that he has to smooth out; there’s not much left to discuss with Foggy except have time heal the nastyish wound left behind but Karen is hiding something, he knows.

He can feel it. Her heartbeat isn’t always steady and her body temperature is usually higher than normal. He can smell her sweat, but most importantly, he catches whiffs of alcohol on her. Always.  

There were never supposed to be this many secrets. But there are, and there are just more things on his plate to sort through.

By the time he finishes work, Matt is itching to get home, although he knows darkness won’t fall for another few hours. He immediately thinks of going to Father Lantom, but he feels that he hasn’t spent enough time thinking through the situation. “What _situation?”_ his mind’s voice chides him, as if a simple decision lays ahead.

His back may not be pressed against the wall yet, but he feels that it is, in the form of losing time. For the first time in years, he feels a hope he hasn’t felt before, a chance to regain something that was taken from him. He doesn’t regret his actions in saving the elderly man, he’ll never regret such a thing, but he feels hope that the heavy weight of his decision may finally be lifted. He feels a lifting feeling within his chest, as if someone grabbed the meat of his body and pulled upward. And the answer to the truth of this feeling lies in a Russian crime lord that may, unfortunately, have nothing to do with him. But the Man in the Mask has unfinished business with him, and on that whim, Matt goes.

The summer air is warmly muggy around him. He feels the water in the air seep into his uniform, and it makes him uncomfortable, like wearing an extra skin that doesn’t quite fit. It rubs against him when he moves albeit fluidly through the streets. He tunes it out along with his inner unrest, attuned only to the sounds of the street and conversation around him. Vladimir can’t be far, if Matt ran into him just this morning. 

Matt focuses his hearing and allows it to flit from person to person. He filters out the heartbeats and other movements, but hears nothing that might pertain to Vladimir. He thinks of the places Vladimir might frequent. After the Russian mob disbanded, Matt hadn’t really kept track of where the survivors ran to lick their wounds, but he feels Vladimir would be nearest to his deceased brother, Anatoly. And the warehouse is the last known location Anatoly’s body might have rested, so he heads there.

As he runs, his footsteps light on the concrete, he hones his hearing in on the destroyed warehouse. He hears drunken babble mixed with some sobs, but can’t tell the words apart. A different language then; it’s the only explanation. As he nears, he can hear more of the actual sounds of the words, a jumbled mix of free-flowing words with some hard sounds, but the person speaking is unmistakeable. As soon as Matt realizes the voice belongs to Vladimir, his heart jumps, much to his annoyance. He takes a deep breath, and jumps down from the building he’s perching on. He runs across the street and makes his way to the back of the wreckage, walking through debris he clearly cannot see. With no walls to guide him, it’s a wonder he makes it through without cutting himself.  

Matt nears the voice, and it gets loud enough—until it completely stops.

“What you want, _mudak?”_

“How did you make it out of the tunnels?”

“How you think?” Vladimir spits back.

Matt waits quietly, and a few seconds pass until Vladimir says, tiredly, “Doesn’t matter. Going back to Moscow. What Anatoly,” Vladimir’s voice breaks, “wanted. Should have listened!”

Matt hears the soft slap of flesh as Vladimir’s face hits his hand. He can hear the ruffle of the blonde’s hair as he runs his hand through it, and scratches. 

Vladimir sobs once, and then sniffles. And then he says, more forcefully, “What you _want_.”  

Matt’s heart pounds loud in his chest, and he irrationally fears that Vladimir can hear it. Vladimir must be so close, so close, because he can hear every movement the man makes. He can hear one of his teardrops his the ground, and Matt doesn’t know how to feel.

He understands the pain of losing the only person you’re close to, but Vladimir is a criminal and he should have known this would happen. But his father wasn’t a criminal and it happened to him too and Matt wasn’t prepared. So Matt sits down next to Vladimir, in a move he would never have expected of himself. In a way, they are comrades, brought to justice in their own ways. It’s an interesting balance that Matt would not have expected. He will never understand the way God works for him, how this could be a mercy.  

Matt feels the need to flee, now that he knows Vladimir’s next steps, but he also doesn’t want to move. He can feel his mind telling him to just grab Vladimir’s hand because then he could see, then he could _see._ But Matt doesn’t want to startle him, so he asks, “What are you going to do in Moscow?”

“Why? You follow me to stop me there too?” Vladimir spits. 

“Hell’s Kitchen is my city. I protect _it,_ ” Matt says. 

Vladimir growls. “Keep your city! I don’t want this shit place.”

Vladimir moves to get up, but Matt throws out his hand to pull him down. He touches shoulder, and gasps at the feeling of strong energy that moves through him. Vladimir gasps all the same, and scrambles back as he pushes Matt’s hand away.

“You!” 

Matt feels his blood leave his body, like his soul is somewhere above his body but not in it. However, his heart continues to thud in his chest, threatening to fall out. He freezes where he is. 

“You—“ and Vladimir delves into fluent Russian while Matt just listens, his heart threatening to give. 

When Matt finally regains the ability to move his limbs, he starts to bolt. But Vladimir jumps on him, and they both gasp at the amount of the electricity that runs through them. As they struggle against each other on the ground, Vladimir yells, “What you do to me!”

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything!” Matt fights against Vladimir, in defense rather than attack. He doesn’t want to hurt the man that holds the key to his sight.

At the back of his mind, while he struggles, he feels despair at the fact that his mask covers his eyes and that he can’t see _anything_ as they struggle. It’s the only time he truly hates his outfit, until the Russian attempts to pull it off.

Something primal starts in Matt and he fights to get away, like a rabid animal promised a fresh kill. As much as he fights Vladimir though, he’s deadlocked with him. Vladimir apparently isn’t as drunk as he had seemed. Or he held his alcohol well. 

Matt attempts to push Vladimir off of him, but pushing him off and attempting to turn into another direction does exactly what he did and didn’t want: it pulls off his mask, and Vladimir rushes back to straddle him, the way he himself did in that abandoned building a few weeks ago.

Matt stops fighting as he stares up into a wide face with drying tears smushed all over it. He sees a scar, and then his vision blurs.

“No!” Matt cries out and holds onto Vladimir’s shoulders, but the vision is still blurred, and Matt feels pain fill him fourfold.

He can’t have just been given this gift and have it taken away from him just as quickly. It wasn’t fair! It— 

Matt breathes out as he realizes that whatever is causing the blurriness is falling down his face. He’s crying. He’s _crying._ Relief floods him and he lets out a sob. His hands drop to his face to quickly wipe away the tears, but his eyes almost never lead Vladimir’s, who stares down at him like he’s a foreign object.

“You are man I crash into this morning,” Vladimir states.

Vladimir’s eyes are narrowed, and Matt revels in those details. He can see the folds of skin where the eyes narrow, and the frown of his mouth. He can see the outline of Vladimir’s small lips and the shadow the hairs of his beard create on his face. Matt only wishes the sun was out so he could see all the details, like what the color of Vladimir’s skin looks like in the pale daylight. Instead, he sees in filtered moonlight.

Fresh tears leave his eyes, and Vladimir continues to stare down at him, his hands pinning down his biceps. He slowly unpins him, and starts moving backward, but Matt grabs after him, gripping Vladimir’s biceps as he stares at this face. ‘ _I can’t forget his face. I can’t forget it.’_ His mind repeats this, and then he falls into blackness as Vladimir rips away from him.

“No!” he yelps, rushing forward to where he thinks Vladimir is. 

The only thought that rushes through his mind is _‘Find Vladimir. Find Vladimir. Find him’_ and its deafening so he can’t use his abilities to locate him. Everything is jumbled.  

Matt stumbles around, hands outstretched. He does this for a few more seconds until he falls to his knees with his head in his hands. The world is on fire again, and he closes his eyes to meet the blackness like an old friend.

“You are blind,” Vladimir says, and Matt’s head whips to his right where he hears him.

And then he looks back at the floor, now on his hands and knees, feeling too unsteady to go to Vladimir to _see_.

“Yes,” he admits, and it betrays him because his voice trembles.

There’s a few moments where there’s nothing, and then, “How you fight?” 

And it’s quiet, unlike Vladimir. No judgement, a clear question.

“I have… other abilities,” and Matt shakes his head at his admissions. He sniffles as he gets to his feet and feels himself regain his bearings. His legs can hold him up, and he gets ready to run.

He can hear Vladimir’s heart thudding in his chest, faster than anything. He can almost feel him staring at him. 

“Go back. Honor your brother’s wishes,” Matt says, and pulls his mask back on.

He leaves, unable to see Vladimir staring at him, but feeling the stare at his back. Vladimir makes no sound as he leaves.


	3. Grace Within Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In truth, Matt very much wants to touch Vladimir. He’s noted that when he’s around him, he feels something drawing him toward him, but away from something else, he knows. He understands the danger that lies within that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more interaction with Matt and Vladimir!
> 
> I had no idea I was going to end up writing this much angst. But bruh, I love it.
> 
> Also, this story is no longer Unbeta'd! The amazing [celebrianofimladris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris) is my Beta!

Matt makes his way back to his apartment. His movements edge into clumsy, and Matt knows it’s time that he calls it a night. It’s unfortunate, however, because his body may be tired but his mind is fully alert. Matt despairs. 

He thinks over his last words to Vladimir, and his stomach curls in grief. He understands exactly what he’s asking of himself by telling Vladimir to leave. He’s asking for a lifetime of torment, of being unable to _see_ even with the key in front of him to open that locked door, but being Catholic means he knows a little bit about taking and enduring a hard punishment. He laughs wryly and shakes his head at the thought.

Although the devil in him urges him to turn back to Vladimir, his moral compass solidifies his foundation with the feeling that he’s doing the right thing. And he is, isn’t he? Matt can’t help but feel a sense of _wrongness_ underlying all the absolute right. Why would God send him crashing into the thing he wants most only for him to deny it? Is this a test of falling for temptation or is it a gift.  

But what are the implications of keeping Vladimir in town? Matt knows exactly what Vladimir will do with a weapon in his hand: he will use it to strike fear and shoot down those in his path. That is the motive of his being, of a criminal; it’s how he exists and he knows no other path, at least no other path that Matt knows of.  

Matt knows nothing of Vladimir’s past. He briefly mulls this over, realizing that he indeed knows very little concerning the Russian’s past, even with the research done from taking Fisk down. Even so, the Russian brothers’ background wasn’t entirely important; it was only what they could do that was. 

As he reaches the door of his apartment building, he takes a deep breath and enters. There is no reason at all for him to do any extraneous research on Vladimir. Because Vladimir is leaving. He’s returning to Russia. Matt attempts to convince himself this as he reaches the door of his apartment.

He walks in to familiarity. He takes in the sights his fiery vision—if he can even call it that—provides and notes his proclaimed-by-friends shitty couch. For a second, he sees a form of a person sitting on it. Another trick of his own eyes and radar sense, because he could have sworn it was shaped like Vladimir, but he knows, knows deep in his bones, because there’s no other heartbeat in his apartment, that no one is actually there.

For some reason, the thought saddens him, and his shoulders slump. He heads immediately to the fridge for beer, anything to numb the harsh edges of his distress, and takes a few swigs.

He takes the beer to his bedroom, leaves it on the bedside table, and changes out of his outfit, grabbing boxers and a t-shirt to sleep in. He doesn’t bother showering, because he doesn’t entirely want to forget and wash off the feel of hope from his skin just yet. 

Matt isn’t tired, but his limbs sink into his bed. He pulls silk sheets around him, and lays there, feigning sleep until it comes to him. But his mind is still buzzing. The longer he lies there, the more _wrongness_ he feels of his decision to allow Vladimir to leave. He moves to lie on his side, curling slightly, and listens. 

The exercise is simple; he’s done it since he was a little boy and it still brings him a semblance of peace. It reminds him of how far he’s come. He listens for a siren in the distance, and finds one. Matt concocts a story: a father rushing home in his car to surprise his child with a birthday gift, when a drunk driver collides with him and the father holds on for dear life for his son, holds on in that ambulance rushing to save him—and Matt stops there, unable to finish the story. He hopes the father lives.

He finds another siren, a police one this time, and thinks of a man on run after a robbery. He imagines the police cornering him at just the last moment, right before he turns onto another street, because said street is undergoing construction and he feels a rush of satisfaction, even if it is fantasy.

Little differences like these are the ones he’s making as Daredevil. He’s keeping his city safe. And Matt refuses to allow himself to think anymore of Vladimir because he has bigger things to worry about. This works for all of a minute. ‘ _Self-control only works when you have the energy to control yourself,_ ’ Matt thinks wryly. After having touched Vladimir, he feels bereft of energy, so snippets of what he saw enter his mind. He grips these images tight.

He marvels over Vladimir’s eyes, the shape of them, the shape of his brow, his lips. He can see his face clearer than anything, ‘ _even clearer than my own father’s face,’_ he admits shamefully to himself. He marvels over the fact that he can tell the details of a face and that for once, it didn’t look like it was a part of his living hell. Everyone else’s faces are encased in fire, like they’re in hell. And it makes him feel like he’s in hell, because maybe he is. Maybe he really fucked up somewhere along the way, but these are passing thoughts, because he remembers how righteous it felt to save the old man’s life and so, he can’t be in hell; he’s just suffering.  

But he remembers Vladimir’s face, and he falls asleep to his confused image imprinted in his mind. 

———

Matt wakes to his alarm repeating the time. He groans, feeling slight twinges of pain as he moves his limbs. But this is normal. He wakes up like this close to every morning, and it usually reminds him of a victory the night before. But this time, only memories come rushing back.

Matt blinks, for the sake of it, and rubs his hand across his face. He grabs for his glasses on the bedside table, and curses when his hand brushes the beer bottle to have it spill to the floor.

He exhales from his nose quickly, and his mouth sets in frustration. 

“Clumsy man, but good fighter,” a voice comments.

Matt freezes, and then moves into motion. He moves into fighting stance, and Vladimir retorts, “I do not want to fight." 

“What are you doing here?” Matt almost growls, unwilling to relent in his stance.

“Live in shit apartment but sleep in silk sheets,” Vladimir says, as if regarding…something.

“What do you _want?_ ” Matt growls, very close to losing his patience. Thankfully, Vladimir gets right to the point. 

“What you do to me?”

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Matt says.

“Bullshit!” he spits.

“I’m telling you the truth.” 

In truth, Matt very much wants to touch Vladimir. He’s noted that when he’s around him, he feels something drawing him toward him, but away from something else, he knows. He understands the danger that lies within that. He also knows there’s daylight outside, and there’s a light switch in his room somewhere, so if he touches Vladimir, he can see under light.

He can feel the heat of the Russian’s body a few feet from him, and hear that his heartbeat is steady. He sighs and moves to sit down on his bed, staring in the general direction of the Russian.

“You—“ Vladimir pauses, says some words in Russian, “How you say—electricity. Feel like electricity, what you do.” 

There’s honest to God curiosity in his voice, and Matt holds back laughter. He understands if he laughs that Vladimir will lash out at him. But if Vladimir is here—Matt feels hope bloom in his chest—it must mean he’s curious enough to want to know the exact specifications of the situation, which he honestly doesn’t even know.

“I don’t know how that happened,” Matt says carefully. 

There’s quiet for a few moments, and Matt mentally applauds Vladimir for not calling bullshit.

Suddenly, he feels a jolt of electricity down his arm right before he feels a warm hand on his bicep. He gasps, and hears Vladimir do so as well, and his eyes widen as he sees the room; Vladimir must have turned on the light, but this is a thought at the back of his mind. Vladimir’s face comes into view and Matt feels a smile begin to grace his face. He’s filled with the urge to touch Vladimir again, but this time, wants to be able to see himself do it.

He reaches out his left hand and gently rests his fingers on Vladimir’s cheek. It feels automatic, like it wasn’t a decision. He laughs in surprise and delight when he feels the stubble under the pads of his fingers, because his senses of touch and sight connect completely and it makes him a little woozy. Vladimir says nothing, but watches, his eyes scrunched in confusion.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that this sort of intimate touch is reserved for lovers but he can’t help but feel a burst of happiness. And he knows that at any minute, any minute, Vladimir can attack him. But he can also pull away, leaving him bereft of this gift forever, so Matt relishes as much of this experience as he can—throwing caution to the wind—before he knows Vladimir will undoubtedly leave. He removes his hand.

Matt’s eyes leave Vladimir’s thoughtful face to peer around his room. Vladimir’s hold tightens slightly on Matt’s arm, pulling Matt back from looking at the wall briefly. 

“I can see the color of the walls,” he says to Vladimir, explaining it to him almost like he was a child. He laughs a little at the absurdity of it all, like the color of the walls was ever important to him, and then returns to looking around his room. He scrunches the sheets between his left hand; they’re blue, a sort of brilliant blue and they’re darker where they’re folded. He didn’t know he could see such a saturated color. He huffs a laugh. It awes him.

He feels the bed dip next to him as Vladimir sits down, close enough to keep a hold on Matt’s arm but far away enough that they don’t touch any other way. Vladimir watches Matt carefully, and removes his hand from his bicep. 

Matt feels himself sink as the world shuts to a lack of color, like someone removed all the layers of it and just left shapes behind. He’s returned to his world on fire. Vladimir notes how Matt’s smile slips right off his face. Matt’s face betrays utter grief for a second, but he schools it into nonchalance and blankness. He says nothing.

The silence bleeds like a dying animal, the air ripe with tension. It stays this way, until Matt decides to break the silence with a last, tired, “What do you want?”

He waits as Vladimir regards the question carefully. Vladimir himself doesn’t entirely know what he wants. All he knows is that one day he felt normal—as normal as he could while dealing with the death of his brother,— and the next, he feels bereft of _something_. It makes the emptiness within him hurt even more, and it spawns him to say, “I came to make name for me and my brother here—“ he stops, surprised with himself.

He tentatively continues, when he notes Matt’s surprise. “But instead, I am bested by fighting blind man who can see little and _mudak_ Fisk,” scoffs Vladimir.

It serves to lighten the tension a little and Matt almost smiles, but he has no desire to lighten the rest. He stares ahead, his mouth abandoning the burgeoning smile, uninterested almost.

“You’re lucky you’re alive,” Matt says, in monotone.

Vladimir tries to take no offense, although he feels anger rile him up. He knows what Matt is doing. It is self-preservation at its finest, and he has done the same numerous times. He doesn’t take the bait. “I am." 

Matt still has that uninterested look, but Vladimir knows better. He knows that in that uninterested look, Matt is listening closely. 

It almost reminds him of his brother, who would do something similar: feigning carelessness when Vladimir would try to comfort him…The thought of his brother sends a fresh strike of pain through his chest, and it urges him to continue.

“No matter where I go, I fail. And now I am alone.” 

Matt’s eyebrows rise in surprise at Vladimir’s decision to share such information with him. They may have been comrades, but they’ve both done for each other what they could, what was necessary. Neither owes each other anything, which is why Matt knows he can’t ask Vladimir of the gift of sight. 

Matt knows Vladimir holds real power in his hands, power that he can manipulate to make Matt’s life hell to match his vision. Vladimir holds the power to destroy him absolutely.  

 _‘But just because he holds it doesn’t mean that he might yield it,’_ his mind notes. 

They sit in silence. Matt could easily question Vladimir’s admission and frame it as the crime lord’s fault, but he takes the admission as what it is: a way to balance the power imbalance between them.

‘ _Or a manipulation_ ,’ his mind declares.

But only Vladimir truly knows that he no longer wants power here. There is nothing he wants here any longer; his brother’s coffin is in the middle of being sent back to Russia and he intends on going with him to leave this godforsaken place behind, to leave the place that took the only thing that mattered to him, behind. But.

But he craves answers, now. And this stupid _blyad_ holds the key to them. He cannot leave unfinished business here. Vladimir sighs inwardly. 

And in a deeper part of his mind, he thinks he cannot deny the Masked Man something of this depth, as much as he may want to. He still has some sort of morals, and he knows his brother, the softer-hearted of the two of them, would feel empathetic to the Masked Man’s situation, and the Masked Man has helped to avenge his brother so…

Vladimir thinks to delay his trip to Russia. 

Matt realizes, as he finishes his thinking process, that Vladimir was just as much deep in thought as he. As soon as he moves, he feels Vladimir shift and then ask, “What is your name, Man in Mask?”

Matt freezes, and then wonders, “How did you find me if you don’t know my name?”

“I followed you.”

Matt nods, eyebrows furrowed. He makes a note for the future. He calculates how much more power he loses telling Vladimir his name, and then, in fit of pique, finds he doesn’t care. “Matt,” he says. “Matt—“

He realizes the potential danger of revealing his last name. He doesn’t want to put Foggy and Karen in more danger.

Vladimir waits patiently, and then huffs when he realizes he won’t get a full answer. “You know my name, no? I cannot know yours?” 

Matt purses his lips. He wants to hold his ground, but he grates out, “Murdock.”

He feels Vladimir shift, and get up.  

“You can show yourself out,” Matt says, “since by breaking into my apartment, you know where the door is.” 

“You are too easy to follow,” Vladimir says, offhandedly. 

It grates on Matt’s nerves. “You weren’t hard to find either,” he retorts. 

He hears the door close as Vladimir lets himself out, and then sighs, putting his face in his hands. 


	4. Something So Fair, So Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Couch is shitty,” Vladimir grunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the awesome [celebrianofimladris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris)

He doesn’t go to work today. There is too much on his mind, and he can’t handle Foggy and Karen’s worry. He lets them know that he is unable to make it today, and heads straight to church to find Father Lantom. 

Matt doesn’t understand his own reactions; the way he touched Vladimir confuses him. He could have touched anything else, his arm, anything, but he reached for Vladimir’s face—and as he thinks this, he sees Vladimir’s face clearly in his mind. There’s not just a simple shape of a face; he can see everything in detail, especially the scar on the left side.

Matt wonders what Vladimir would have undergone to have been left with such a memento. He wonders, briefly, what other scars Vladimir has, and he finds, with an uncomfortable certainty, that he wants to devour them—if he has any others, which he likely does—with his eyes. He has forgotten what art looks like. He has forgotten colors.

Matt is taken aback with his own desires. He doesn’t understand _when_ he — is this what wanting someone feels like, wanting someone’s body near his own? It’s different than the feeling he has had with every other woman. He doesn’t want just a body to warm the bed for a night; he wants nearness. He would be content with nearness, and Matt feels faint surprise at that reveal. 

There’s a certain power he feels around him when he and Vladimir are in the same room, like his body hums. It seems to know something he doesn’t.

But this isn’t lust. There is none here. He doesn’t feel arousal heat his loins and expand upward. But he feels a certain want, and it scares him, because he thought he had learned to suppress it. It’s as if everything he was taught is unraveling backwards and he’s forced to relive the trauma of understanding and suppressing again.

Maybe he’s confusing his desire for sight with a need for Vladimir’s closeness. But the two are connected. He and Vladimir both know this, especially after today. What frustrates him, however, is that he doesn’t have knowledge of Vladimir’s motives. He no longer knows if Vladimir will be leaving to Russia.

Matt walks to Church, and seats himself in one of the pews. It’s still too early for any of the services, but he knows Father Lantom is around, probably preparing for the day. Perhaps being in the Church itself may help him find answers.

But his mind changes when he hears a heartbeat approaching him. “Maybe we should go for another latté,” Father Lantom says.

“I’ll have to politely decline, Father.”

“Confession, then?”

Matt sighs, and says, “No.” 

He feels his turmoil bubble up within him. He’s about to speak, but he finds he doesn’t have the proper words for the pain he feels. So he thinks, pursing his lips. He hears Father take a seat in the pew in front of him, like last time, and Matt speaks with careful words. “How are we to know if something is given as a gift or given as a test?”

There’s a pause. During it, Matt feels the disquiet cycle within him. It’s overwhelming. And then Father Lantom says, “There are times in this world, Matthew, when we have to decide what is truly right for ourselves. Things like what you asked often sit in the gray area.There is no way to truly know and understand God’s will. We can attempt to understand it, but we never truly will… So we do what we feel may be the right thing to do. Or we should.”

“What if my feelings war? What if what I think the right thing to do is not what my gut, my soul is asking me to do?”

“Then you have to ask yourself: what is governing your soul? And what is governing your thoughts? Are they one and the same? Or are they something different from what you may have thought?”

Matt takes this information in quietly. 

“You remember our last conversation?”

Matt nods.

He does not want to agree with Father Lantom’s assessment of the Devil, that he exists as a concept solely to keep Man treading on the righteous path. He feels it there deep within him, pulsing, pushing him into action especially as Daredevil. How can something so palpable be only a concept?

“Then you know that the struggle within you may be spearheaded by the better angels of your nature. Or that these angels and the Devil may be the same, as you last mentioned. I don’t know, and that’s okay. The point is that in our lack of understanding, we should do the best we can do. And I hate to sound preachy,” Father Lantom says, chuckling, “But I can only advise you to do what you feel is best. Our thoughts aren’t always right, but neither are our feelings. Which do you feel is most correct?”

There’s another pause at Matt processes Father Lantom’s words. He feels the words quell some of the disquiet within him.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Of course, Matthew.”

Matt leaves Church with a clearer head, but a heavier heart. What he now expects of himself, he knows, could lead to his own downfall. But he _feels_ it, feels it is the right thing to do. However, he’ll have to be careful, because catching Fisk required both sides of himself. He only succeeded because he kept both in check, and there’s a delicate balance between them that he most uphold. 

———

He spends the rest of the day meditating in his apartment and thinking through what he wants to do. He wants to drink himself drunk, but at the possibility of running into Vladimir again—since Vladimir apparently knows where he lives—, he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t start a bottle.

As soon as darkness comes, he suits up. He takes the stairs to the roof—he bought an apartment at the top of his building for a reason—and stands near the edge of the building. 

He can hear the wind whooshing past his face; he can smell the night in the air. When he looks out at the city, he sees a city on fire. This is something he always sees. But he doesn’t really see the city; he feels it. He can feel its wants, its desires, its hates, and it’s overwhelming. But sometimes, sometimes before he stands up for justice, he lets it overwhelm him. He lets himself lose control for however long he must to feel the city deep in the meat of his body, his bones. It reaffirms his belief and decision as protector of his home, and that’s when Matt sifts through the city to stop crime.

It’s a simple day today, apparently. There’s a few muggings he interrupts, but no major heists to terminate. After Fisk’s arrest, crime in Hell’s Kitchen has dwindled; Matt knows it won’t stay that way, that the criminals are either more careful at the moment or just gearing up for something. Corruption doesn’t sleep. 

When he feels he’s done enough for the night, Matt heads back to his apartment. He returns the way he came, via roof. He takes the stairs down to his apartment, and upon entering it, notices one thing immediately.

There’s another heartbeat in the room.

Matt is immediately in battle stance, but he’s too far from the source. It’s coming from where his couch is situated, and it’s slow and steady, the way a heartbeat sounds when someone is…asleep.

Matt relaxes his stance, and exhales through his nose. He knows there’s only one person who would break into his apartment at this time of night, and he thinks it’s time for a rude wake-up call.

But somewhere in the few seconds he takes to walk over to the couch, he changes his mind. Instead, he lays a hand on what he thinks is Vladimir’s shoulder, and gasps when a few layers of color fade into his sight. It’s not as new as the first two times, but new enough that it makes him huff a quiet laugh.

Vladimir mumbles a few words in Russian, and he opens his eyes to see Matt leaning over him. “You have shit couch,” he says, and Matt laughs.

“Join the club,” Matt says. “Are you going to tell me to get a new one too?”

“Maybe.”

Matt shakes his head and says, “I don’t recall inviting you to come back.”

Vladimir gives him a look and pointedly looks at Matt’s hand on his shoulder. 

“What? Afraid of a little touching?” Matt asks. “How’d you manage to fight if you couldn’t handle this?”

“There is difference,” Vladimir says, and forcibly removes Matt’s hand from his shoulder. Matt sees the colors fade as Vladimir releases his wrist.

“Why are you here, Vladimir?”

There’s silence. And the longer he stands there, the more awkward the silence gets. He feels Vladimir’s strain, and it’s not something he wants to deal with at the moment. So he moves forward to where his bedroom lies, and changes out of his suit.

He can feel Vladimir watching him, and it makes him uncomfortable, being scrutinized that way. He still doesn’t think Vladimir is gay, or bisexual even, but something in the air in the room is different. He specifically notes that he doesn’t smell lust. When he returns from his bedroom, he seats himself across from Vladimir.

“When are you returning to Russia?” Matt asks.

There’s more silence, and Matt’s patience is running out. Vladimir does not get to break into his apartment, refuse to offer any answers, and play this game with him where what he wants is just out of reach. He deserves better than this.

And Matt feels horrified the thought has crossed his mind. He panics, for a second, because he doesn’t have the right to question God’s will this way but Vladimir cuts off the rest of his thought process.

“Don’t know,” he says. 

There’s more silence and Matt suffocates in it. He can’t handle this.

Matt gets up and heads to his bedroom. He doesn’t have the heart to kick Vladimir out; it would be like snuffing out his own candle. Vladimir’s nearness makes him feel slightly different, and he doesn’t want this feeling to leave with the person with which it came. So he says, “You can have the couch, but I need you gone by morning.”

“Couch is shitty,” Vladimir grunts.

“You’re going to have to deal with it, seeing as this is the second time you’ve broken into my apartment.”

“Well I see, but you do not,” Vladimir says, grin stretching his face.

“No, Vladimir, I can’t see.” Matt begins to fume. “And I’d appreciate it if you stopped flaunting it in my face.”

“And I appreciate good bed,’ Vladimir retorts.

“This is _my_ house, Vladimir. Allowing you to stay is a courtesy, a courtesy you don’t deserve.”

“And you think you deserve to see?”

Matt stops, and the guilt overcomes him. It gathers in a tight ball in his chest and proceeds to pull the meat of his body inward. Matt’s shoulders hunch. He’s pathetically aware of how he must look so he doesn’t answer.

“Be gone by morning,” he says, and turns around to his bedroom.


	5. Fear in the Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Matt would be nearest to the thing he wants most: light. And that thing now includes Vladimir…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys!
> 
> This one's from Vladimir's perspective!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [celebrianofimladris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris.)

Vladimir watches Matt retire to his bedroom. There’s no door so he can see everything that happens. He watches Matt head into the bathroom, probably to shower.

He wonders for the fifteenth time why he came back to Matt’s apartment. Matt clearly has no answers as to how this electricity thing works so there is absolutely nothing for him here. His brother’s casket is almost ready to ship internationally, but Vladimir is spending his time in a shitty apartment with a shitty couch.

He shouldn’t complain, however, since Utkin Prison was much, much worse. They slept on floors, he and Anatoly. They suffered beatings. He shouldn’t complain. But Vladimir thinks he deserves better.

And when he asked Matt if he deserved sight, he watched the man hunch in on himself like a dog with his tail between his legs. Vladimir lets out a snicker. If Matt was in prison, he would have been dead in a few days. Vladimir would have crushed him like a bug.

But Matt is surprisingly strong—his mind briefly pictures the red boxing gloves he found in a chest in Matt’s apartment—when they struggled against each other in the warehouse. Two times. Vladimir lets out a huff. He was hurt the first time and drunk the second. You don’t fight a drunk man or a hurt man to prove your strength. 

But his mind works against him when it says, _‘But is smart to fight then because opponent is weak!’_

Disgruntled, Vladimir sets his jaw and crosses his arms. Matt is not stronger than him.

But then Vladimir yawns, and so, settles into the couch once more. He doesn’t understand the purpose of himself now. For the longest time, he thought it was to become great, like princes before, with Anatoly. But his brother is gone, and Vladimir feels another pang of pain. With a bitter and aching heart, he wonders how they fell so far.

He spent his first few weeks as one half of the Ranskahov brothers attempting to avenge his brother’s death. But after his attempt at retaliation failed and he was bedridden for severe injuries, he could only mourn his brother’s death the way everyone else did: live through the pain. As soon as he could, Vladimir remembers, he began grieving with alcohol, but it wasn’t enough to dull the pain. It only exacerbated it to agony and gave him headaches, which were insufferable annoyances.

He could have tried drugs, he really could have, but he has seen the effects of drugs on men and it’s a path he doesn’t want to go down. He refuses to lower himself to that. ‘ _Don’t use what you sell,_ ’ he hears a distant voice lecture him every time he even thinks of using narcotics. Anatoly himself would have warned him against using. He can still hear his brother’s voice chiding him for drowning his sorrows in shitty beer. Sorrow blooms in his chest.

Vladimir turns to his side. As he does this, he sees Matt walk out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and shorts and head to the bed. Vladimir groans inwardly. Matt’s bed is probably comfortable. Why didn’t he fall asleep _there?_ At the back of his mind, he notes that it would probably be warmer as well.

Vladimir observes Matt as he climbs into bed and cocoons himself with sheets. He shivers at the lack of sheets and wants to yell for them, but he knows he can survive without them.

He watches Matt lay there for a few minutes—he can only see the shape his legs make under the sheets—and then get up, pass the doorway, and come back with a blanket in his hands. Matt hands him the cover, and Vladimir accepts it with question. He doesn’t entirely understand how Matt knew what he needed, so he simply asks.

“I was being courteous, unlike you,” Matt says.

Vladimir’s eyebrows furrow and he opens his mouth to respond angrily, but Matt interrupts him.

“And I could hear you shiver,” he says, and walks away.

Vladimir doesn’t respond with anything but a scoff. How could Matt have heard him shiver? _He_ didn’t even hear himself shiver. Vladimir mutters a few choice words in Russian as he takes the blanket and drapes it over himself, slowly sinking into the couch, as uncomfortable as it is.

He hasn’t slept on anything remotely bed-like in a while, refused to really, after having been bedridden so long. So he hasn’t really slept in a while. But he feels sleep overcome him here. And for that, for whatever this odd connection he feels here is, he feels grateful.

— — —

He wakes to the bitter smell of coffee in the air, and his stomach growls. He groans and moves on the couch, only to feel pain in nearly all his limbs. He takes back his gratitude from last night: this couch is worse than shitty. He could have felt better sleeping on the floor!

Vladimir grumbles his way out of the sheets, and rubs his hands over his eyes as he sits up.

The first thing he hears from Matt is, “You better be gone when I get back from work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vladimir grumbles. “Want coffee.”

“There’s a cup in the cabinet. Grab it yourself.”

Vladimir watches Matt head with his walking stick toward the door of his apartment. Matt’s dressed in a suit, and it’s well-tailored to his body. Vladimir finds himself briefly marveling at the sight. He’s seen him in the Daredevil attire and his sleeping clothes, but never so professionally dressed. It’s interesting.

As soon as the door shuts closed, Vladimir eyes the bedroom. Matt won’t be back till much later, so perhaps he can use the bed—just until Matt returns.

Vladimir takes the blanket from the couch and heads over to Matt’s bed. He ensconces himself into it, and lets out a stream of curses as he sinks down and feels the soft sheets against his skin. How could Matt have such bliss and give him such _shit?_  

Although outraged, he falls asleep quickly.

— — —

He sleeps in till two PM, and wakes feeling well-rested. He laughs, feeling a contentment that’s usually reserved for a successful human-trafficking run. For the first time in weeks, his limbs don’t hurt, and it’s a little odd, because he’s come to expect tinges of pain when he wakes up—usually from being on the floor.

Vladimir knows Matt won’t be home for another few hours at least. Any experience he’s had with lawyers in the past tells him he’ll be back around five. That’s at least three hours of complete utter boredom waiting ahead for him. Vladimir groans, and swipes a hand against his face. He’ll have to find something to do.

And why is he waiting for Matt anyway? He doesn’t owe the stupid _blyad_ anything! But he feels comfortable here, and Vladimir tenses when he realizes he feels a little too comfortable. The break-in was to look through the rest of Matt’s belongings, not to stay like a houseguest. Vladimir’s mouth sets. He won’t stay here.

Vladimir sits up, pushing sheets to the side. They glide against his skin, and for a second, he question’s Matt’s priorities. Again. “ _Mudak,”_ he mutters under his breath, and makes his way to the kitchen. If he’s going to leave, he might as well eat before he does. Like a true houseguest.

But it turns out that Matt has next to nothing in his fridge, except beers, bread, butter, some fruits, and leftover takeout. And frozen dinners in the freezer. If Vladimir lived here, he would make the fridge overflow with food. He can already taste his favorite breakfasts on his tongue, and his mouth waters. He feels fury (and a little bit of sadness at the back of his mind) rise within him at the fact that Matt’s food standards are just a bit better than Utkin prison’s food standards.

He opts for an apple, a banana, and bread. He toasts the bread, using the butter as a spread, and then bites into it, savoring the taste on his tongue. He stares out the window, noting the billboard spread on the next building and laughs at the absurd _rightness_ of it all. Of course Matt would be nearest to the thing he wants most: light. And that thing now includes Vladimir…

Vladimir tenses at the thought. Perhaps that’s why Matt hasn’t yet kicked him out. But he told him to be gone by morning, and that counts, no? But he thinks back to the Matt—the Daredevil—that kicked the shit out of him back in the warehouse and tries to merge the two together. They seem so different. The Daredevil would not have hunched over and taken a beating, physically or verbally; the Daredevil would have kicked him out immediately.

Matt is _affected_ by the things he says… He sees the image of Matt hunched in on himself again, and tendrils of guilt start to form in his chest.

Or maybe, he’s overthinking this, and Matt bought the apartment because the billboard outside makes it cheap. Cheap is good.

By the time he finishes, it’s been about a half hour. With nothing left to do, Vladimir locks the door behind him as he leaves the apartment, and then the building. Matt should be proud Vladimir at least bothered to do so. He can’t be bothered to do much anything nowadays.

The day is bright and warm, and he can’t remember the last time he enjoyed the weather outside. He can’t remember the last time he _enjoyed_ anything because Anatoly’s presence is the last thing he enjoyed. With a swelling wave of emotion circling his heart, he heads to the nearest park, thinking it’s probably time he call to learn the progress on his brother’s coffin being sent overseas.


	6. Hope Within Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladimir’s mouth curls into an expression of detestation, but he holds his tongue. He pulls Matt with him in the direction of the couch and pushes him down onto it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the wait! 
> 
> Ooh, we get to see Foggy and Karen for the first time!
> 
> Beta'd by the fantastic [celebrianofimladris!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris)

Matt doesn’t know where Vladimir will go, but he knows he can’t house him. He can’t house a crime lord in his house, especially as a lawyer, a supporter of _justice. ‘Justice, Matt, you’re on the side of justice!’_ his mind screams at him. 

But where else is Vladimir to go? The old, broken, warehouse? And where has he been staying to heal his wounds? How did he even survive? If he has made it this far, then he doesn’t need Matt’s help. Or Matt’s housing. This is the conclusion the sane part of him reaches.

But against his better judgement, Matt feels responsibility for the crime lord. And a festering thing within him—the Devil, Matt is sure—craves Vladimir’s nearness. Housing him would fulfill those desires. He would have sight almost always within his reach. 

Matt stops himself, before the dirty feeling spreads in the shape of a vortex in his chest, eating away all the good parts of himself. This thing within him just _wants._ And it scares Matt.

Housing Vladimir is one of the worst ideas he could have ever thought of, worse than letting Foggy convince him to go partying with him. There was that one time— and Matt shuts the thought process down there.

Matt shudders inwardly just thinking about the mayhem that his life has become. 

The only thing visible is the subtle expression of disgust on Matt’s face, which is the first thing Foggy sees as he walks into the room.

“I swear it wasn’t me,” Foggy says.

Matt is taken aback for a second, but he catches on quickly, and laughs. “I didn’t say anything, Foggy.”

“I think your face did the talking there, Matt.”

“It doesn’t smell bad in here, Foggy. I was just… thinking.”

“Hopefully about how we’re totally able to pay our bills now. Ever since we took down that asshole, Fisk, we’ve been getting a lot of clients. But you’ve been sort of gone for the past few days, dude, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Foggy.”

There’s a pause. And then.

“Your nightly activities taking a toll?”

Matt tenses at the bitterness coating the sentence. “Something like that,” he replies.

Foggy’s jaw sets and he doesn’t hold back when he says, “I thought we weren’t going to have any more secrets, Matt.” 

Matt grimaces, and he sighs. “Foggy—“ 

“No, don’t ‘Foggy’ me, dude. I—“

“Is everything alright?” Karen asks, as she opens the door to a tense and almost-ashamed-looking Matt and an angry Foggy standing in front of his desk. 

As she enters, the tension leaves the room and Matt’s shoulders relax. “We’re fine, Karen. Just a little taut, today.”

“Yeah, ‘taut’,” Foggy says.

Matt hunches in on himself a little, and it prompts Karen to speak. “Matt, what’s going on?”

All of a sudden, Matt feels hot fury rise within him. He knew this worry thing would come to a head eventually, and he doesn’t want to deal with this right now, shouldn’t have to. But he holds himself back, because he knows he can ask Karen the same thing—because he knows she’s hiding something, he _knows—_ to diffuse the situation. But she’s his friend. And so is Foggy. So he takes a breath. “I’ve just been dealing with something,” he says, vague as ever.

Foggy scoffs. 

Karen then says, “You know you can trust us, Matt.”

And Matt can imagine himself spilling the beans, almost feels the sweet release of doing so, but he can’t burden them like this, not when they both have their own burdens to handle. So he says, “I know,” quietly.

There’s silence, and Foggy scoffs and leaves the room with heavy footsteps. She watches Matt as he stares at his desk forlornly. 

Matt thinks of the secret he holds and how it could change all the dynamics between them if Foggy and Karen were to find out. He can’t lose any more people. He doesn’t think he can handle it. 

“Matt,” she begins as she walks into the room.

“I’m fine, Karen.”

Matt should just get this tattooed on his body somewhere, because of how often he says it. He laughs inwardly at the knowledge that he’d be unable to see it anyway. His mind briefly travels to Vladimir’s tattoos though—he wonders if that’s how he got some of them, because of doing specific things often and wonders the impermanence of them—but he shuts down the thought process pretty quickly. 

“Matt, you’ve been off for a few days now. We—Foggy and I— thought that you’d be okay after you took that day off, but you don’t seem to be getting any better.”

“I’m not sick.”

“No, Matt, you’re not. But if you keep doing this, you might end up sick.”

Matt has no response to this, because he knows she’s right. He sighs.  

Karen takes this opportunity to sit in the chair in front of his desk. “Talk to us,” she says.

“It’s just—It’s just things I have to deal with myself, Karen. I’m sorry that it’s affecting both you and Foggy. I never meant for that.” 

“I know, Matt. We never mean to bring our own issues to work.”

Matt pauses, and then.

“Speaking of issues, Karen, are you alright?”

Matt hears Karen’s heartbeat quicken and knows that she probably froze as well, as she says, “I’m fine, Matt. It’s just you we’re worried about.” 

Matt purses his lips, and nods slightly, knowing she won’t reveal anything further. He doesn’t have too much of a desire to push the subject either, as he has his own plate to finish first.

The silence drags for a few moments, until Karen says, “Well, I better get back to work, because there’s been a lot of that lately.” 

He can hear the smile in her voice as she says this, and it makes him smile. “A good thing, because we’re going to need to update some of the equipment we have in here.” 

Karen lets out an embarrassed laugh as she leaves the room, leaving Matt to the thoughts flying in circles in his head. He just wishes they would stop, sometimes. But he knows they won’t, because this is what makes him Matt Murdock.

———

Vladimir finds himself on a park bench overlooking a green field. There’s trees around him providing comfortable shade—he’s sitting under one—and there are people running and walking about.

He’d be more worried if he knew there were people after him. His face was well-known, at least during Fisk’s tenure, but the public has moved on to better things. Vladimir laughs at the stupidity and ephemerality of human nature.

He calls what’s left of his empire, specifically Dmitry, who is in charge of the process of moving Anatoly’s coffin overseas.  

_“Dima!”_

_“Yes, Vladimir Ranskahovovich?”_

_“Is it ready to be shipped?”_

_“Almost. It should be ready by tonight,”_ Dmitry says.

_“Why did this take so long?”_ Vladimir can’t help but rage.

Bitterness coats his tongue as the words leave his mouth. The aftertaste is sadness.

He hears Dmitry apologize profusely on the other end, but he knows it’s not his fault. Nevertheless, the anger needs a place to go.

_“Call me when you finish, Dima.”_

_“Yes, Vladimir Ranskahovoich.”_

Vladimir puts his self-control to the test when he tries not to crush the phone within his hands. He keeps hearing Anatoly’s words of going back to Moscow in his head, circling, circling, like a feedback loop. And he thinks of Anatoly’s body rotting in the cemetery vault he’s being kept in.  

He cannot shame his brother any further, not anymore. He briefly thinks of Matt and the issue that lies with him and Vladimir decides, without hesitation, that his brother is more important than whatever business he has with Matt. He will leave for Russia tonight if he must.

But why, then, does he feel a sort of _wrongness_ at the decision?

———

Matt makes it home with Chinese takeout in hand. As he tries to enter his apartment, he finds it locked and a tendril of suspicion starts forward at the back of his mind. His suspicion falls away as soon as he scans the apartment from outside the door and realizes that there’s no heartbeat, no soft thud-thud in hearing. Matt realizes that Vladimir made good on his word, however brief his agreement to it was, and finds himself sink slightly with disappointment.

Sight, gone.

Matt makes his way to the shitty couch, and starts in on his takeout. It’s average, as it usually is. He feels lonely, and Matt hates to think that this bothers him, because he knows what it’s like to be alone, has learned to cope with it.

But Vladimir’s reentrance into his life has ripped out the roots of all the things that keep him stable. Matt flexes his hand but it forms into a fist anyway because anger courses through him at the lack of control he has over his own existence. And he’s surprised (and guilty) that he’s questioning God again, but he can’t see a clear path. 

He wants to throw everything off the table, and maybe even overturn it. But he practices control. 

He sighs and puts his face in his hands. As he does this, he hears his door being picked open and Matt heads over to door, his heart jumping because it can be only one person. He opens it—Vladimir obviously hasn’t finished picking the lock—and says, “Hello, Vladimir,” looking down in his general direction. 

There’s a silence, and he hears a footstep and a whoosh of air. Matt feels a warm hand on his bicep and energy rush through him, and now the world is in color again. He takes off his glasses and holds them in his hand. But he isn’t thinking, because all he knows is that Vladimir’s face is inches from his own and Vladimir’s wildly blue eyes are staring into his own.

“Matt,” Vladimir says, and nods his head.

“Vladimir,” Matt says, and nods in return.

There’s a few moments of silence where Matt realizes he’s holding his breath and then lets it out and says, “Come in, since you were planning to do so anyway. 

Vladimir’s mouth curls into an expression of detestation, but he holds his tongue. He pulls Matt with him in the direction of the couch and pushes him down onto it. Vladimir sits next to him, and groans. “Get better couch, _mudak.”_

“We’ve already had this discussion, Vladimir,” Matt says, and he feels a little giddy, although he tries not to show it. He studies Vladimir’s face, especially the scar that runs over his eye. He wants to touch.

“Apparently didn’t stay in head,” Vladimir retorts a little harder than necessary, uncomfortable under Matt’s gaze.  

Matt watches his mouth as he speaks.

“I’ve been busy,” Matt says, and flicks his eyes back from Vladimir’s lips to his eyes.

“Doing what? Getting ass kicked on streets?”

Matt sighs inwardly, because this has begun to sound like a petty game. But he doesn’t want to ask what Vladimir is doing here. The warmth of Vladimir’s hand on his bicep seeps into his body. Matt lets it ground him, and doesn’t respond.

Whatever light mood that was there dissipates when Vladimir sighs.  

Matt tenses, immediately waiting for something bad. Vladimir doesn’t seem the type to sigh and give up. He feels hope rise within his chest, feels the meat of his body being pulled upward. Is Vladimir deciding to stay? But he feels it fall a bit, when he thinks that perhaps Vladimir is _resigning_ himself to this. Matt feels horror spill out from his chest and leave him cold.

Vladimir doesn’t understand why he feels bad doing this, why it feels so _wrong_. Cutting ties has always been simple for him. No one comes to the level of importance his brother stands on. So why does this make an unfamiliar churning feeling start in his stomach and a tight ball of _something_ form in his chest?

It takes him a few moments, but Vladimir recognizes the _something_ as guilt.

He says, “I leave for Russia tonight,” and Matt’s stomach bottoms out.

“Oh.” 


	7. Role of a Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he feels it sink into him, as he sinks back onto the couch, that he cannot have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for the wait! I haven't abandoned this piece, I promise! I hope updates will come more regularly in the future. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [celebrianofimladris!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celebrianofimladris/pseuds/celebrianofimladris)

Vladimir removes his hand from Matt’s bicep, and watches grief pass over Matt’s face. But it’s over in moments, because it’s replaced by resignation and a strength Vladimir doesn’t know the source of. 

“What made you change your mind?” Matt asks, as the resignation seeps into his voice.

Vladimir looks torn for a moment, but he replies, “I must honor my brother. Must bury him.”

Matt understands but it doesn’t lessen the heavy weight of his exhaustion and despair. He pauses for a few moments to think Vladimir’s motives through, and then asks, “Are you going to stay?”

“Here?” Vladimir questions, as if it’s an asinine question, something he’s already answered.

“In Russia,” Matt clarifies quietly.

“Don’t know,” Vladimir says, and Matt almost wants to throw up.

While Vladimir gets up and makes his way to the door, a flurry of thoughts run through Matt’s head. In a sane corner of his mind, Matt knows his reaction is paralyzing to himself, that he has to move, to shut down emotion and take action the way he’s been taught. But the emotion is too great, and knowing that he may never see color again, _see_ again, has him stand and upturn his table. 

Vladimir starts at the clashing sound—he’s halfway to the door— and pauses and takes in the scene: Matt’s hands curled into fists, the tense nature of his body, and his teeth gritted. Vladimir feels a need to flee, but he grounds himself with the knowledge that he’s made his decision. He walks out the door and eventually, the building.

All Matt hears is the sound of the wooden table clash to the floor and smells the Chinese takeout briefly before it spills everywhere. It drowns out Vladimir’s fading heartbeat. Out of his flurry of thoughts, he can only think that the thing he wanted most was snatched away from him, an event in true accordance with other events in his life.

Matt feels he will never truly get the things he wants. A part of his mind tells him that although he’s alone, at least he’s not bloody, so Claire cannot truly be right, cannot predict how the rest of his life will go.

But he feels it sink into him, as he sinks back onto the couch, that he cannot _have._

He puts his face into his hands, and agrees again with his earlier statement that, being Catholic, he knows a little about suffering. And no matter how much he _knows_ about it, he’ll always feel the pain, and he’ll never get used to it.

———

Vladimir is in Russia by nightfall. He’s tired, so he instantly falls onto the bed of the hotel room he’s in. Tomorrow, he’ll organize the funeral. Tomorrow.

Tonight, he wants to forget. Forget the faces of pain that he’s seen. For some reason, tonight seems to be the night they all come back to haunt him. The people he’s hurt, the people he’s killed. The people that have died because of him. Matt’s existence makes him question some of his own past decisions. 

No. No. Everything he did, everything, was to get to America, and start an empire. Or to protect himself and his brother. Anyone who was in his way was taken care of, as they should have been. He could not have enemies if he killed all of them; he killed for self-preservation.

But the faces come anyway, tear-stained, defiant, bloody, teeth-bared, and Vladimir falls into an uneasy sleep. 

———

Matt doesn’t want to go to work again, almost doesn’t have the energy to pull himself out of bed. 

When he does pull himself up, he heads to the bathroom to follow through his morning routine. He stops in front of the sink, and his hand reaches out to where the mirror should be on the wall. When all he feels is plaster and paint scratching against his fingertips, he curls his hand into a fist, but there’s nothing there to grab.

His other hand is white from gripping the sink with so much vehemence, and his jaw is set. He feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes. A wretchedness comparable to last night’s fury comes with the knowledge that there’s no sight the tears will blur, and it pushes him over the edge. The tears leak out of his eyes and he sobs, leaning over the sink against the wall. 

He wants to slide to the floor, curl up in someone’s embrace—‘ _Vladimir’s embrace_ ,’ his mind assures him—but he’s alone, terrifyingly so.

 ———

At the end of the internment, when mourners have begun to walk away, Vladimir remains behind. He stands in front of the coffin of his brother, which is covered in tiny piles of dirt and flowers. Although many of their empire had fallen, those who had stayed behind to work for them in Russia, had come full force. 

Vladimir knows that this only happened because he is back in Russia, and they must pay him respect. He still leads whatever is left of the empire, and his expertise in murder, theft, and every other criminal activity they can think of is not lost on whomever remains. They know he is prone to anger—he himself knows this—and so they know that their lives are in danger if they do not come. But he also knows that many are there to actually pay their respects to his brother, who was quick-witted and sharp, but warm-hearted as well, more so than Vladimir. Vladimir leaves his brother underground with the knowledge that he was loved.

There’s no mercy dinner planned for afterward, but they go to the local bar and get drunk. In the early hours of morn, Vladimir stumbles back to his hotel room. At some point during his walk back, tears stain his cheeks and sobs wrack his sturdy frame. It’s disorienting, this grief, and it doesn’t let him walk straight.

When he wakes up in the morning, he wakes up in his hotel room bed to the world’s worst hangover. Vladimir doesn’t want to deal with the finality of everything that’s occurred in the week he’s been in Russia, so he attempts to go back to sleep. It works, if only for a few hours, and then he’s forced to deal. 

———

Matt makes it to work. By the end of the week, he’s reached a semblance of normalcy. This includes Matt’s usual stoic behavior, but it’s more heightened than usual. Vladimir made his choice. Now he just has to deal. 

But whatever semblance of normalcy he has reached isn’t enough, because the worry in the air is stronger. And that worry in turn has worried him further. It’s a never-ending cycle of pain and it drags and pulls at Matt’s patience. 

Foggy’s mood toward him hasn’t improved since the last time they spoke. And he knows if he could see Karen’s face, he’d be seeing pity across it. She tries to joke with them, and Foggy sometimes takes the bait, but when Matt tries, his attempt falls flat, plunging the room into further tension. So he usually politely nods when he can get away with it, and in these rare moments is he ever glad he cannot see their faces. 

By the time the weekend arrives, Matt is fresh out of patience and suits up. He’s been suiting up every night to patrol Hell’s Kitchen anyway, but tonight, he feels an angry vigor explode within his body as he walks the streets. He wants someone or something to punch. The boxing club curbed the brunt of his desire, but there’s quite a bit left over for criminals. In the back of his mind, he knows the desire will never be fulfilled, because the answer to it lies halfway across the world.

As he patrols, Matt exercises his hearing, stretching it to maybe a block and a half down, if he really focuses. There’s not much he finds. He interrupts a few drug deals, small ones, he notes, and a few muggings. 

He enjoys stretching his limbs and running, the adrenaline that comes from the fights and the satisfaction that he’s helping his city. But he has managed to forget the relief that comes with this because every morning, he feels plaster and sees nothing. 

———

Vladimir finds himself often sitting in a bar. Coming back to Russia brings so many memories, all of which include his brother, that he almost wants to run away. He sees his brother, Tolya, sitting in the seat next to him one moment and the next, he disappears. 

Anatoly’s phantom shadow follows him as he slips through the cracks of Moscow. He finds himself restless in the city that raised him, and it brings about a cloud of sadness.

After meeting with acquaintances, many of whom want to help him restart his empire, Vladimir realizes something, as he’s sitting at a table surrounded by friends: 

_“Volodya, I am sorry about Tolya.”_

Vladimir says nothing, but nods. “ _To Tolya,”_ he says, and raises his beer.

The others clink their vodkas with him, and he takes a swig, or two, or three. It burns on the way down—the drink is stronger than he’s normally used to, reserved for situations in which he wants to forget. 

Another of his friends says, “ _So when do you want to restart the operation?”_

Another joins in. “ _Ah, yes when_?”

Vladimir looks down at his drink, and the condensation collecting on the outside. He draws a finger across it, and it collects on his finger. He rubs it between both fingers, as he thinks. He briefly imagines himself in command, and cannot see it. In his mind’s eye, the screen is blank. 

And it angers him, because they ask as if Anatoly’s death meant nothing, as if he was just another body that’s been disposed of. They’re so quick to move on—Vladimir knows among his friends there are those that want to take his place—that Vladimir doesn’t understand how they could. 

They just lost one of their leaders. How—

Vladimir’s jaw sets, and then he begins to berate his friends for even having brought up such a topic. They sit back in alarm, and quickly change the subject, talking of women they brought home instead.

Vladimir sits back and listens to them speak. They speak of banal things, and Vladimir finds that he doesn’t want to be in their presence. He excuses himself. 

As he lies back in his bed—he finds a friend to stay with—he realizes that he does not want to start an empire without his brother by his side. It was their dream, not only his, and becoming great without him—Vladimir is told in other conversations that it would honor Anatoly’s memory but he disagrees—is not a route he wants to take. 

He knows—and it takes him a month of barhopping, meeting with old friends, avoiding old enemies, and getting drunk off his ass—that Anatoly would want him to understand his connection with Matt. And he understands, with a misery he cannot push back into a box in his mind because it overflows and surrounds him, that it is Anatoly who should have had this connection with Matt. He knows Anatoly would have been able to give the blind vigilante what he needs, because Anatoly was the one who gave Vladimir his light to guide him forward.

The metaphor is crappy, he knows—he also knows Anatoly might have appreciated it—but it makes sense to him in these terms. 

As he lies there and wishes for sleep, Vladimir thinks that perhaps, it is his turn to be a guiding light. But it frustrates him that he has to do this, because he did not ask for this—he does not ever ask for handouts, because he can do things himself—and had no say in this.

And he thinks of Matt and his smile as he sees Vladimir’s face, and the look of absolute devastation when he cannot, and knows that Matt didn’t ask for this either. Nobody asks for grief. He knows this well.

He finds that he doesn’t want to see Matt’s face look devastated, because it hurts too much, because it feels like he’s failed his brother somehow. He falls asleep to Matt’s smile, and feels a simultaneous heaviness and calmness overcome him.


	8. A City of Seven Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Vladimir curls his fingers around Matt’s fingers, and Matt’s heart skips a beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that this chapter has some homophobic tendencies in it. 
> 
> Unbeta'd

It’s been a month since Vladimir left, and Matt doesn’t think about him anymore, at least not often. His mood has improved at the office, and he and Foggy and Karen are beginning to get along again. Whatever fracture Vladimir left in Matt has healed over, or scabbed over at least. He hopes no one pries it off, or pries it enough to make him bleed.

They’re working a sexual harassment case, where Matt is very sure the victim was sexually harassed. His heartbeat hadn’t wavered when he’d told his story. Matt’s reading up on the company the victim works for, when Karen comes in and says, “I made coffee! Do you want any?”

Matt looks up, amused smile on his face and says, “No thank you, Karen.”

“Are you sure? I promise it’s actually good this time!”

Matt sighs, smile still on his face. “Fine, give me a cup.”

“Yes!”

As Karen leaves his room, she says to Foggy, “See, Matt’s gonna try it! You were wrong!”

“He probably doesn’t want to make you feel bad,” Foggy says. “That’s just the kinda guy Matt is.”

“Oh shut up,” Karen says. 

She comes back in with a cup and places it in Matt’s hand. He puts it down quickly because it’s quite hot, and then hears Foggy come in as well.

Matt assumes she looks amused at his behavior. She also hasn’t moved, which means she wants him to try it. And he knows Foggy is waiting for the same thing. 

“Alright, if I burn my tongue—“

“It’s all my fault. I’ll take the blame,” Karen laughs. 

Matt takes a sip, and the watery bitterness explodes on his tongue. He grimaces but attempts to smile. “It’s not bad,” he says.

“It’s bad, Matt. You can say it’s bad.”

Foggy laughs. “Better luck next time, Karen.”

“I’m sorry, Karen,” Matt says.

“No problem, I’ll just eventually learn how to make good coffee.”

“Of course you will! And I’ll totally become Queen of England,” Foggy teases.

“For that to happen, Foggy, you’d have to get a sex change,” Matt says, and then he looks to where he thinks Foggy stands. “Are you keeping something from us? Because I don’t judge. Just like I didn’t judge in college.”

“Oh, come on, man! That was one time!”

Karen lets out a surprised laugh. “What was one time?”

Foggy groans. “You suck, Matt!” He leaves the room with Karen trailing behind asking for details.

And Matt thinks that this is what his life should be like. 

After they finish discussing the case, Matt heads home. He suits up and fights. He feels the city in his bones, feels it as an extension of himself as he runs through the place he calls home. It’s exhilarating.

He’s in good spirits when he finishes: he managed to help the police, without working with them, take down a small drug ring. There was a satisfaction in knowing he stopped something before it could rip through the city and cripple it. And it was an accident, too, taking down the ring. The leaders were idiotic enough to lead him straight to their headquarters. Matt shakes his head at the criminals’ stupidity.

As he nears the door to his apartment, he hears a heartbeat inside. 

Matt’s on edge, fight stance ready. He takes a deep breath, turns the doorknob easily, and steps inside. The heartbeat in the room speeds up, and the room has a faint smell of anxiety. It almost makes Matt take a step back through the doorway outside, but he doesn’t. He ends up leaning slightly backward, and then eases into a fighting stance. Righteous fury fills him; there is no one else in the world who would want to break into a blind man’s apartment.

“Not here to fight, mudak.”

Matt grits his teeth. Vladimir doesn’t get to leave and come at his leisure to flaunt his own power. He needs to choose, because at least he, unlike Matt, has that option. “Why did you break into my apartment again, Vladimir? What do you want with me?”

There’s a huff and some choice Russian, and then Vladimir says, “Calm down.”

Matt loses it. He runs at Vladimir, and smacks him down. The world is a blur of color and he feels faint power. It disorients him for a moment. It’s enough time for Vladimir to push him off of himself and to his right. The momentum of the push rolls the two over with Vladimir on top of him.

Matt attempts to punch him in the face, but Vladimir blocks it, grabbing his hand. But Matt gets in a punch with his other hand to Vladimir’s temple, and Vladimir loses his balance and falls on top of Matt. Matt pushes him over, and gets up. He then leans down, grabs Vladimir by the collar of his shirt, and drags him back to lean against the wall.

“I’m not going to ask again,” he says, face dangerously close to Vladimir’s. “Tell me what your business here is.”

He can feel Vladimir’s body heat, and the quick rate of his heartbeat, but he can’t see him because Matt is careful to only touch shirt. Plus the mask is in the way, so he wouldn't be able to see him anyway.

Vladimir laughs. “You think it this easy to get information from me?” He spits on the floor. “Try again, khui.”

Matt slams Vladimir against the wall, and Vladimir replies by wrapping his hands around Matt’s throat. Matt gasps at the feeling of power that thrums through his veins—oh, how he missed this feeling. Matt didn’t realize how empty he had felt, until the emptiness had dissipated. 

Matt takes one hand off Vladimir to pull off his mask, and he sees color.

The touch has the same effect, minus the introduction of colored sight, on Vladimir, whose grip loosens around Matt’s throat. They’re still for a few moments. Matt just looks at Vladimir and feels at the back of his mind a bone-deep despair, a thing that behaved as a sort of rash with no balm there to sooth it, dissipate. His shoulders relax minutely, and Vladimir begins to pull his hands away from Matt’s throat.

Matt quickly and unconsciously grabs onto both of Vladimir’s hands with his own. He curls his fingers around Vladimir’s, and exhales. Vladimir’s shoulders are tense, he can see they are, but that doesn’t stop him from staring into Vladimir’s eyes. They’re just as blue as he has seen in his dreams, and Matt wants to laugh at how stupid that sounds.

Vladimir watches him carefully as he does this, as Matt goes through whatever it is he goes through when they touch. 

Matt finds himself staring longer than normal, so he looks away. All of a sudden, the room becomes uncomfortable, and Matt unhooks his fingers from around Vladimir’s hands. He knows he’ll lose sight as soon as he does this, but this is how every single one of their tangles has gone. Vladimir always gives him a small taste, and then he leaves. He taunts him, even if he doesn’t mean to. 

But Vladimir curls his fingers around Matt’s fingers, and Matt’s heart skips a beat. He tenses in shock for a second, and then relaxes, looking at Vladimir. Although he looks uncomfortable, Vladimir has an expression that appears determined. It’s an interesting look, and it makes Matt want to laugh.

Matt pulls Vladimir up then, until they’re both standing and looking at each other’s encircled hands.

“Black suit was better,” Vladimir remarks, as he looks him over, and Matt wants to laugh. 

“Well, I hadn’t seen either before I wore them,” Matt says.

“You see them now,” he says.

Matt looks down as he says, “I do, Vladimir, I do.”

He feels Vladimir tense with how hopeful the phrase sounds. It makes him cringe inwardly, so he changes the subject. “Where are you staying?” ‘And are you back here for good?’ his mind adds on.

“Shitty motel,” Vladimir says, and then curses in Russian. His shoulders have relaxed, though, so Matt knows it’s not serious.

He pulls one hand out of Matt’s hands, and it shocks Matt, for a second. Fear paralyzes him and he must look like a deer in headlights because Vladimir tightens his grip on Matt’s hand with his other one, and the fear breaks up to give way to relief. Vladimir isn’t going anywhere.

Matt laughs, trailing behind Vladimir as he pulls them to the couch, as Vladimir finishes his mini Russian tirade.

“Oh, you laugh now, huh? You sleep in,” Vladimir says something in Russian, “bed and leave me to use shitty couch. Keep laughing, mudak. I sleep in your bed next time. And you get shitty couch.”

“No, my bed’s mine. Only mine,” Matt says lightly. 

At the back of his mind, he finds, startlingly, that he wants to share his bed with Vladimir. It makes an uncomfortable feeling start in his gut, and he pushes it away to examine later.

Vladimir huffs, and nods. “We see,” he says.

“No, we won’t see—“

And Vladimir laughs aloud.

Matt looks slightly affronted until he realizes his mistake and laughs along. At the back of his mind, he can’t truly understand the depth of what is happening here. They are two individuals at the opposite ends of the spectrum of morality laughing together. Matt never thought the day would ever come. Their laughter eventually turns into chuckles.

As the laughter dies out, another awkward silence descends upon them. After a few moments, Vladimir says, and he looks a little resigned, “Tolya better at this. Would give you what you need.”

Matt must look confused, because Vladimir clarifies, “Anatoly. My brother.”

“But you have what I need,” Matt says, and the admission leaves him a little breathless.

Vladimir nods his head once, looking out the window. Matt stares at the profile of Vladimir’s face. It’s rough, the planes of his face, and angular, but in a distant part of his mind, he knows it to be beautiful. Objectively, of course.

Matt colors at the idea of—

He must have regained himself, because when Vladimir looks back at him, it’s with a slight smile. It seems displaced on his face, though, as if it doesn’t naturally belong there. And it strains Matt’s smile too. 

Vladimir looks down at their clasped hands, and Matt does too. He doesn’t want to let go—even if he knows his hand is a little sweaty—and he hopes Vladimir doesn’t want to either. They meet eyes, and Vladimir huffs. He looks back out the window. The tenseness has returned to his shoulders.

They sit in silence, Matt switching between watching him and looking around at his apartment. He wants to see his apartment in closer detail but doesn’t want to bother Vladimir, want to burden him with the job of allowing him to see any more than he has.

Vladimir watches him look around. “Shit place, too,” he says, as he pats the couch.

“I’ll have to agree to that,“ Matt nods. “The walls could use some paint, and—well, everything could use some work.”

Vladimir makes a noise of agreement. It is around now that Matt realizes how faint his other abilities are when he can see. He can just barely hear Vladimir’s heartbeat, faintly steady as it is, and he can no longer smell the anxiety in the air. The thought scares him, and Matt says, “I should change out of this suit.”

“I will watch,” Vladimir says, leery grin on his face. 

And then Vladimir seems to remember something for a second, because his shoulders tense and the smile slips a little from his face, but whatever it was he remembered is soon forgotten and the grin returns full force. Matt lets out a startled laugh.

“Vlad, no.”

“Vlad, yes,” Vladimir says, and one of his eyebrows are raised.

Matt’s heartbeat increases. He’s never seen lust on anyone’s face before, especially not toward him. He could smell it, always, but seeing it was something he only could have imagined. 

And he doesn’t see much lust on Vladimir’s face. It’s mostly curiosity, and there’s a little fear, but it’s still there. Normally, he would have been able to smell and sense all of these, but seeing them has more of an impact on him. He latches onto the fear. What is Vladimir afraid of?

Maybe Vladimir has the same fear as himself. That what he’s doing is wrong. His mind laughs at him, because Vladimir’s probably killed dozens of people (Matt doesn’t know for sure and that should count for something but he’s glad he’s taking his doubts into account), and he ran a human-trafficking ring. Vladimir has no sense of right or wrong. 

But Matt’s body curdles in discomfort at the statement. He knows Vladimir has a moral compass of some sort; it just operates differently than most. Matt wonders where Vladimir finds him, using that compass of his. His smile dampens.

Vladimir notices, and his grin disappears. “Was joke,” he says.

“I know,” Matt says, but he’s not fully present as he says it. He does notice, though, that he feels despair creep back into him at Vladimir’s somber tone. He doesn’t understand why he feels that way.

The Catholic part of him berates himself for the way he’s feeling. It almost confuses him, because he’s never had a problem with homosexuality at all, not even when Foggy was experimenting. He feels a sort of self-hatred descend on him. 

Matt lets go of Vladimir’s hand, and the color vanishes. He’s surrounded by a familiar darkness and a world on fire that meets him like an old friend. He feels that emptiness again, although not as pronounced, as he heads to his bedroom.

He stops for a second, in front of what he thinks is probably the doorway. “You’re welcome to stay, Vladimir,” he says.

“Want bed, not shitty couch,” Vladimir grouses.

“Well, you can’t have mine.”

“We see,” Vladimir says, and Matt tenses.

He sees, not Matt.


	9. Dumpster in the Driveway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt’s breath catches when he realizes what he has said. He can’t look Vladimir in the eye, and he drops eye contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about law so I sort of waved my hands over anything law-oriented. I did super basic research, but if what I wrote is wrong, please feel free to privately message me (if not here, then Tumblr) and I'll fix it!
> 
> Also, warnings of homophobia (mostly self-homophobia, if that's even a word).
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Vladimir does leave. Matt hears his heartbeat leave the room. And he’s left wondering what the plan is, what Vladimir’s plan is, and how Matt wants to deal with this. 

He can’t suffer another month if Vladimir leaves. He’ll put his foot down, _something_ , because it wasn’t fair. An entire month scratched out like a useless lottery ticket, a month he can’t get back. It ranks in the worst time periods of his life, up there with Stick leaving him behind, and having killed his father.

Indirectly, he knows. He killed his father indirectly, but the guilt still sits there and stirs his pot of emotions deep, creating a whirlpool and making him unstable if he thinks about it too long. 

But Vladimir did things differently today. Matt felt it, and knew it. There was determination there that Matt hadn’t seen before, a sort of reluctant resolve. Matt only wonders how long that resolve will hold out.

He fears, for a moment, that Vladimir will back out—back out of what? They haven’t made any specific plans—and return to Russia, but then he really thinks. If Vladimir had made it to the top of whatever Russian hierarchy there was, then he had to have been persistent. He doesn’t seem the type to inch away from things that make him uncomfortable. 

Matt thinks back to the warehouse, the first time they truly met, and unbidden, Vladimir’s words come. “ _I have counter proposal. Suck my dick.”_

And Matt colors at the thought. Arousal shoots through him, and Matt feels horrified. He didn’t feel this then, not when Vladimir was bleeding out in front of him, but now… things are different. 

Vladimir held his hand, and he didn’t let go. He didn’t… let go. 

Matt pads over to his bathroom, and takes a _cold_ shower. It’s not cold enough that he’s shivering as he walks out, but it’s close enough. And he isn’t aroused by the time he leaves the bathroom to his relief. He slides on boxers before getting into bed.

He sinks into the bed, and sighs. It’s been a good day; those are hard to come by in the life he lives.

———

It’s apparently quite noticeable what has happened the next day, because as soon as he walks in, Karen says, “Hey, Matt!” the way she normally does.

But then she pauses and says,” You look different today. Did you do something to your hair?”

Matt chuckles. “No, Karen. It’s the same as it’s always been.”

“Hmm, I could have sworn you did something different.” 

He hears Foggy enter the room. “Hey, Matt!” 

“Hey, Foggy,”he says, smile still on his face.

There’s another moment of silence and then. 

“That’s the biggest smile you’ve had in a while, dude. What happened?”

He doesn’t even wait for Matt to finish.

“Agh, you got laid, didn’t you?” 

Matt stifles a laugh, because _no,_ he did not get laid. But Foggy always assumes things like this with him.

“Oh, you got laid! I can’t believe this. Was she hot? She was definitely hot. Oh my God, my life sucks.”

Matt lets out a few chuckles, as he hears Foggy leave the room.

“Um,” Karen says. 

Matt’s still smiling—he can feel his cheeks begin to hurt—as he asks, “So how far are we on the harassment case?” 

“Oh! Yeah, I think we just have to go through the testimonies again and then you and Foggy need to choose what motions to file.”

“Alright, good. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

———

The rest of the day passes in a blur. They’ve chosen the motions and have gone through the story and details once more before they filed them. And Foggy decides, after the day’s done, that they should all go out for drinks. The mood in the office was bright today, and Matt realizes with uneasiness that his mood affects the moods of Foggy and Karen far more than he realized. He vows to keep a better rein on them; usually he’s very good with keeping himself to _himself_ , he knows, but things haven’t been stable for over a month now.

But, with the right persuasion to the right people—‘person,’ his mind corrects him—his life may become stable. Matt tries with extreme difficulty not to think of the “unstable” life Vlad might have lived before he lost it all.

———

They’re sitting in a bar, laughing, the three of them. Foggy’s telling his, “I would have been a butcher,” story for the hundredth time and Matt’s lost in it all. 

He takes in the slightly increased heartbeats of his two closest friends and he relaxes back in the booth, content to take in their chatter. There’s a feeling of satisfaction deep in his bones (and Matt refuses to recognize the even deeper restlessness. If he touches it, it will awaken like a serpent and eat everything in its path. Matt isn’t prepared for that).

And then the focus of the conversation turns on him, and Foggy asks, “So who’s the lucky girl, Matt? You’ve been quiet all night, man, I think we deserve to know.”

Matt tenses, and the smile slips from his face a little. He strains to keep it there. “There isn’t a girl, Foggy,” he says lightly.

“Then what happened dude?”

“Yeah, Matt, what happened?”

Matt’s quiet for a moment, knowing if he doesn’t give them a little information, they’ll—Foggy for sure—will find out. Foggy found out about Daredevil, and he’ll definitely find out about this. And fear pierces Matt. He can’t have that happen. Foggy may just never forgive him.

But he can’t phrase what has happened in a way to throw them off the trail. He can’t lie, he _can’t_ , because he wouldn’t be doing it to protect them (or would he?)

“Matt?”

He’s been quiet too long. He thinks quickly. “Sorry. So… so there is a girl.”

He hears both their intakes of breath, and then their questions of, “Who‽” and “What’s her name?”

Matt takes in a breath, and says, “V-Valerie.” And it’s not exactly a lie…

And if Vladimir were here, Matt knows he would laugh. Hard. Matt can’t keep himself from blushing, and he looks down. 

“And it’s serious?” Karen asks.

Matt laughs lightly, and says, “I don’t know yet, but I think,” and he pauses, thinks for a second, and finishes with a smile, “I think it could be.”

“Well, she’s gotta be best-friend-approved, dude. You have to bring her around!”

Matt chuckles. “I’ll try, Foggy. She’s not one for social events.” Matt thinks of Vladimir’s coarse nature, and agrees with himself. He tries not to think, though, of the very problem he has just created.

‘And your lies keep piling up and up,’ Matt’s mind chides him. Matt tries not to feel guilty.

——— 

When he gets home, after patrolling the streets, he’s met with a heartbeat in his apartment whom he knows is likely Vladimir.

He can’t stop the feeling of hope that rises within his chest as he steps closer to the apartment. As he steps inside, he notes that the heartbeat… is coming from his bedroom.

And it’s as if someone added lighter fluid to the fire burning within him (or maybe it’s residual adrenaline) but he strides into his bedroom, fully prepared to kick Vladimir out of _his_ bed. He distantly works out that although he did want Vladimir in his bed (and Matt feels horror fill him briefly at the connotation of his words), he wanted to have that on _his_ terms, especially because the most important thing gets decided by Vladimir. 

But he walks in, and before he even gets a chance to speak, Vladimir says, “I take back. Red suit good too. Very form-fitting.” 

“Get out of my bed, Vladimir.” 

“No.” 

“Vladimir.”

“You want me in bed. I very good.” 

Mat colors, and he’s struck speechless. He tries to say something, “Are you—“ but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

He shakes his head slightly. “I want you out of my bed.” He notes that Vladimir’s heartbeat is pretty fast.

“Out of clothes? Can be arranged.” 

“No, Vlad. Out of my bed.”

“Maybe decide when you see,” Vladimir says, and there’s a shuffling of footsteps and a warm (and slightly sweaty) hand on his cheek. A sort of power flows through him, and a sort of satisfaction comes along with it. 

Matt pulls off his mask, and sees Vladimir’s face. He huffs a quiet laugh of disbelief, and then says, “My answer is still the same.” 

“Too bad,” Vladimir says, pulls his hand (and sight) away, and jumps onto the bed. He groans as he sinks into the mattress. 

Matt stands there motionless, struck dumb. It’s disorienting to be thrown back into his world on fire, and so, he starts working on autopilot. He takes clothes with him into his bathroom and showers. As he does so, he feels a trepidation overcome him. He feels like a teenager again, feeling nervous about sharing a bed with someone. 

It feels too sudden, and too weighted, really. 

Vladimir can’t _want_ this, want to spend his life attached to a burden, attached to someone whose existence goes against his entire being. Because in the end, one of them is the criminal, and the other one is spawn of the devil. (He thought he was good, but he knows he’s got the Devil in him so what is he really?) If he squints, Matt can’t tell the difference between either of them. Thinking about this gives him a headache.   

It’s too fast, all of it, but it’s happening and Matt can’t stop it, doesn’t know how to, and (although he feels guilty about it) doesn’t really want it to. Will he still be accepted by God for lying with a man?

Matt backtracks. They’ve done _nothing,_ absolutely _nothing._ They’re not even a couple. He’s fine. He can do this. He touches the spot above his sink where his mirror should be, takes a deep breath, and then walks out of the bathroom.

He sits down on the bed. He feels Vladimir shift behind him, and then there’s a hand on his bicep and power through his veins. 

Fear pierces him, to his annoyance, and he turns around to meet Vladimir, who’s pulling him around. 

Matt looks at Vladimir just scrutinize his face, and Vladimir must realize something, because he says, after a few moments, “I take couch.” 

Vladimir lets go of Matt’s arm, but Matt’s hand automatically reaches out to grab his forearm (and he notes that’s it’s quite muscular). His next words almost stick to the roof of his mouth, but he says, “No, yo- you can stay.” 

Matt’s breath catches when he realizes what he has said. He can’t look Vladimir in the eye, and he drops eye contact. 

When he looks back up again, he sees a gleeful grin on Vladimir’s face before Vladimir turns around. Matt watches as Vladimir lies back on the bed and slips his hand into Matt’s hand as he does so.

He lies down too, and they’re side by side, not touching except for their entwined hands. And Matt can’t fall asleep on his back (can’t fall asleep because of his fast heartbeat), but he marvels at the fact that it goes dark when he closes his eyes and light when he opens them. He doesn’t get too much of a chance to really revel in sight. And he’s beginning to think that he might be getting lots of those chances. 

This should feel awkward, and it does, until Vladimir starts snoring next to him. Matt groans inwardly.

The only way he can fall asleep is on his side, and the only way he can accomplish this without slipping his hand out of Vladimir’s is if he faces him. So he gives in, and does so.

He stares at the profile of Vladimir’s face, the depth of the scar on it, in the bleak darkness of his room, and again wonders how Vladimir got it. 

Asking Vladimir could go both ways: he could lash out at Matt, or tell it with great pride and pleasure. Matt doesn’t know what he would do.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

But for now, he’s going to sleep, for the first time with the ability to close his eyes on the world. He is finally just himself. He grips Vladimir’s hand tighter.

 


	10. Debris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladimir pulls down his mask roughly, and then all he sees is an angry Russian in front of him whose palm is resting across his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!
> 
> Trigger warning for slight non-con
> 
> Unbeta'd

_ There’s blood on his hands, and he knows because he can feel it, feel it slipping down between his fingers. It’s almost watery, but he knows it isn’t water. And they hurt, his hands; they pulse with pain and they feel swollen. It’s not unlike the pain he feels when he’s gone too hard on the punching bag.  _

_ He’s on some hard concrete, and it digs into his knees. It’s cold. He feels cold. Numb. _

_ And he knows there’s a body beside him, even though it’s unmoving, because of the heat radiating from it in direct contrast to everything around him. And he knows instinctively that it’s his father, knows it deep within himself, like a sort of shattered certainty that comes together, all jagged edges. And he knows that he’s the one who killed him. _

 

He wakes, with a large weight over his frame. Matt panics, and almost springs into action. Just before he attempts to throw the weight off of himself, he realizes: It’s Vladimir, wrapped around his frame, nuzzled into his neck. And _he’s wrapped around him._

His heartbeat speeds up more, and he realizes that he can _see._ He shuts off the alarm to get rid of excess input; the sound is too much to handle with the sight of the room and _Vladimir draped across his chest._ There’s sunlight coming in from the windows in both his room and the living room. He takes in the crispness of the colors blurred by morning sight for a few seconds to calm his thudding heart—he had forgotten the blurriness of the morning—and simultaneously tries to process _how this happened._ When he looks back at Vladimir, he finds Vladimir glaring at him.

“I—“ Matt starts.

Vladimir says nothing, still glaring, and pushes himself away from Matt.

Matt gasps as he loses sight, and he cries out, “No!” but Vladimir grabs his hand.

And Matt heaves in breaths to calm his nerves as the sight and that feeling of comfort returns.But it’s not enough.

“Don’t—Don’t do that,” Matt says. He’s looking down, away from Vladimir in an attempt to gain control of his breathing. He’s waiting for it to turn to anger, to propel him into some position of power, but it doesn’t happen. Vladimir makes him fall apart.

“I do what I want,“ Vladimir says, but there’s no real heat behind it, not when he looks slightly concerned as Matt raises his head to look at him.

Matt wants to scream, ‘And what _do_ you want?’ can almost imagine himself doing so, but he could end up pushing Vladimir away and he can’t risk that.

But because he’s still a mess of nerves, it slips out unbidden. “And what _do_ you want?” His voice sounds raw to himself. He feels a sort of desperate resignation start to fill him.

Vladimir looks uncomfortable. He looks away for a few moments, before returning eye contact. “Don’t know,” he says.

And Matt wants to throw something. He pulls away from Vladimir, and his sight disappears as he does so. He strides into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, feeling the vibrations of it under his naked feet, feeling the vibrations bounce off the walls, and leans over the sink. His hands turn white as he grips it, and he takes in a shuddering breath, lets it out similarly.

His face screws up, and he feels his face heat, and he knows he’s about to cry. And it makes him even angrier, knowing that Vladimir’s sitting on his bed, smug. ‘This is what Vladimir did for a living. It’s what he’s good at,’ his mind tells him.

A few tears slip down his face, and he sniffles, before wiping everything away with the back of his hand. He feels himself shake a little.

‘He’ll turn you into a killer,’ his mind says.

‘You already are,’ his mind returns. And the chill of the nightmare runs through him again.

Matt distantly remembers that his alarm went off for a reason. As soon as he realizes this, he starts on autopilot mode. When he leaves the bathroom, he finds that Vladimir is gone.

———

Work is tough. He can feel the worry pervading the outer reaches of the office, but he tries, he tries _very hard_ not to let it affect his mood very much. 

He’s been amicable, today, but he knows that Karen and Foggy still think something is off.

And they try to ask, but he tells them nothing. He tells them nothing because he doesn’t entirely know what’s wrong. 

He doesn’t know why Vladimir pushed him away so angrily this morning. He can see the expressions on his face, the disgust and hatred; it’s imprinted on his mind. And the numerous thoughts of why haunt him until he gets home, changes into his suit, and goes out to fight crime.

He gets into an altercation with someone of a similar skill level—it’s been a while since that has happened—and they’re both punching and kicking, back and forth.

The other man tries to stab him in the chest, but the material of the suit and the fact that he backs away, stops him from even getting a cut. The man, bent over with the inertia of his attempt, pulls away as Matt tries to slam his elbow on his back to force him to the floor. Matt hits empty space—he must be off his game if this happened—and on his way back up, ends up getting nicked under the chin with the other man’s knife.

Matt hisses in pain, avoiding the desire to touch his chin to check for extensive damage, and punches back. He gets in a punch to the man’s nose, and he hears it crack, feeling vindication rush through him.

The man yelps, and pauses, fight stance ready, until he hears the sound of the police siren coming closer. He runs. 

Matt stands, heaving breaths. He doesn’t want to chase the criminal; he thinks the cops can handle it at this point. Maybe. 

He doesn’t know how bad the cut is or how much blood he’s losing, but from the feel of it down his neck, it’s not that bad and he’s not losing too much blood. Good.

He hasn’t gotten cut in a while, not since he switched to the new suit. That hasn’t worked for bruises, however. He hasn’t had to call Claire for a while either, and for that, Matt is grateful. He remembers the last conversation they had, and it reminds him how difficult he is to love.

Matt heads back to his apartment, and his heartbeat speeds up when he hears another in his home. He’s still riding on the coattails of adrenaline, so he feels fury rush through him. He stalks in, ready to raise hell as he rightly should and opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly, Vladimir is in his space. Vladimir pulls down his mask roughly, and then all he sees is an angry Russian in front of him whose palm is resting across his cheek. 

“Shithead!” Vladimir yells, tilting Matt’s head, and then curses some more in Russian. “Who did this?”

“It doesn’t matter, Vladimir. Let me go.”

Vladimir curses some more, looking at the wound, but he refuses to let go.

“Let me go!” Matt rages, and pulls away from him.

Vladimir pulls him right back, and Matt’s jaw sets. Matt follows along on thinly veiled patience as Vladimir pushes him to the couch and says, “Sit. I clean.”

“I can do this myself.”

Vladimir mutters something in Russian as he walks away to the bathroom.

And Matt knows he sounds childish, but it _is_ true. He’s been taking care of himself for years; he can easily patch himself back up. But his mind betrays him when it lets him think that he wouldn’t mind if someone else took care of him for once, like Claire did briefly. 

But he’s still angry. He wonders, though, why Vladimir even bothered. Why Vladimir even cares.

When Vladimir returns, he sits next to Matt. The tension in the room has increased twofold, and it puts Matt even further on edge as he hears the un-clicking of a box and the unscrewing of a bottle next to him. 

A warm palm rests on his face, moving to hold his head in place, and then he sees Vladimir take a piece of gauze and wipe at the cut. Matt doesn’t even hiss, and Vladimir smirks. “You know pain,” he notes.

“And so do you,” Matt returns.

There’s a few moments of silence while he watches Vladimir work, and then he hears him speak, softly. “Too much pain,” he says.

And Matt doesn’t know if he’s talking about himself or Matt. Or even both of them. But he’s inclined to agree.

Vladimir messily tapes on a bandage. He grins crookedly at his handiwork, and Matt feels the fight begin to leave him. Matt’s shoulders sag, and he’d relax back into the couch, if Vladimir’s hand hadn’t moved back to his face. 

A thumb strokes his cheek and Vladimir pulls away, leaving Matt in slight shock. He wonders if he just imagined what happened, or if it actually occurred. Currently in his world of fire, he can’t tell. 

“Stop doing that,” Matt says. “Stop taking it away and giving it back. I— I can’t—“

Vladimir slips his hand into Matt’s and Matt’s sight returns. 

“Choose, Vladimir!”

Matt’s poised on the couch, staring Vladimir down, with Vladimir staring right back. They glare at each other for a few moments, until Vladimir huffs and looks away. Matt doesn’t feel vindictive, only sad, and he sags a little, turns away.

Vladimir says nothing, but his hand on Matt’s doesn’t leave. Matt feels Vladimir grip his hand a little tighter.

Matt looks ahead as he says this, so he’s unable to make eye contact with Vladimir. “I—I need warning, Vlad. I don’t know,” he laughs in disbelief, “I don’t know a lot of things, actually. I don’t know if you’re staying here. I don’t know if you want to be here. I don’t know what you _want_ here. If you—“

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows Vladimir is watching him now. He doesn’t think he can finish the sentence.

The words don’t come, but he thinks Vladimir might understand.

“Told you ‘Tolya better at this,” Vladimir says, and he sounds a little resigned but there’s a defensive tone in his voice that makes Matt say, “But he’s not here; _you_ are.”

And the hand on his tightens in its grip, but it’s not to hold onto him; the action is borne out of sheer anger, because Vladimir’s face twists into a sneer. 

“Think I don’t know‽” Vladimir snarls, pushing Matt over onto the couch. He points to himself with vigor, as he looms over him. “I _bury_ him, _I_ bury my ‘Tolya!”

Vladimir’s face is so close to his that Matt knows they’re breathing the same air. He can feel his puffs of breath on his cheeks (He can’t see him). He pushes Vladimir back away from him with both hands, and they go tumbling, with Matt looming over Vladimir this time, on the other side of the couch. 

Matt holds himself up, by holding onto Vladimir’s bicep with one hand and having his hand splayed out on the couch with the other.

“I remember! When you left for an entire month _without_ telling me when you’d return, or if you’d return at all!”

“Didn’t need to,” Vladimir snorts, and it’s as if Matt’s pain for the entire month has been disregarded, as if his suffering had no meaning. It makes Matt punch Vladimir in the face. 

Vladimir’s surprised for only a moment, and then growls and punches him right back, pushing him over. Matt falls back onto the other side of the couch with Vladimir following. While Matt recovers from the hit, Vladimir takes the opportunity to hold both of his wrists up by his head. They’re not fully on the couch, with one of Matt’s legs hanging off and Vladimir leaning between his legs, one leg on the floor and another kneeling on the couch. 

In a different, mostly hidden, part of his mind, Matt thinks that he wouldn’t mind being in this position at some point. But only on his own terms. The thought arouses him as much as it frightens him.

Vladimir looks down at him, and he notices. And Matt notices—with a horror that pushes him into action—that Vladimir notices.

Matt doesn’t have any purchase and little power except for pushing back with the power of his wrists, perhaps a little with his lower back. But he bring his legs around Vladimir to push him over, and, because of Vladimir’s lack of balance, it works, and they go crashing into the coffee table. And that’s the second coffee table, because he broke the first one when Stick was here. Maybe he should just stop buying coffee tables. These thoughts briefly pass his mind as he gets used to the pain that comes with broken wood and broken glass digging into him.

Vladimir is furious now; Matt can feel his anger, because it’s just that palpable. He pulls Matt from the wreckage of the table, and starts to drag him away—probably to beat him up—but Matt’s not as hurt as Vladimir is in the wreckage, and so, he’s not as weak. He pulls himself up—and Vladimir lets him, oddly enough—just as Vladimir gets ready to punch him again.

Vladimir misses, because Matt’s got speed on his side, and the inertia of Vladimir's motion makes it hard for him to slow. Matt’s able to push him down, but Vladimir, the stupid asshole, pulls him down with him. Matt briefly thinks that this is how it’s all going to end with them; he’s going to get pulled down and consumed by the darkness of Vladimir, give in to his inner Devil. The thought, fleeting as it is, has its effect and it leaves him slightly cold, distracted.

It also turns out that Vladimir’s too well-versed in the art of fighting for survival (Matt _knows_ this, he knows that they’ll always be deadlocked, and yet) and somehow, rolls them over with him on top of them.

Their panting breaths mingle, and he’s about to push Vladimir off of him, when he feels a hand trail down his body and suddenly, Vladimir’s palming him. “This what you want, da?” he sneers. “This?”

Matt recoils in shock, and fear floods him. He pulls away, almost wrestles out of Vladimir’s hold, who lets him go and watches him back away. 

Matt stands a few feet away from Vladimir who pulls himself off the floor and huffs a laugh. “Am right, Matthew,” he says. “You want my hands.”

“Get out,” Matt says. His voice doesn’t sound steady to his ears, and it shames him.

Vladimir laughs.

“Get out!”

Vladimir laughs on the way out, hand reaching to grab at Matt’s crotch before he leaves. 

Matt slinks back away from him, having felt him come nearer, and waits for Vladimir’s receding footsteps. 

When he’s sure Vladimir is sufficiently away from him, he slips to the floor, head in his hands. And he’s shaking.

No one’s ever done that to him before. Not in a fight, not ever. 

Those are the only thoughts rushing through his head as he sits there and attempts to regain control of himself. He notes that he’s a little hard, and shame and guilt wash over him until everything just fades.

He feels almost numb, a little bit like the days he felt after his father’s murder. He understands in that moment that he must never have really left those days; he never really got out. The numbness greets him like an old friend, something he thought he locked away in a box but apparently not well enough. It steals his breath.

It starts from his feet and heads up through the rest of his body. He feels cold, bereft. And Matt knows if he doesn’t move, he’ll cause himself damage. So he pushes himself up on weak legs, and he heads to the bathroom to take a hot shower, to get some heat into his bones.

He’s not going into work tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I don’t end up writing fluff for these two, I’m actually going to implode. Vlad’s literally such a dick omg. I don’t know how you guys are surviving this. Are you?


	11. Song Yet to Be Sung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He isn’t Daredevil for nothing, Catholicism be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for a lot of pain.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Vladimir doesn’t know entirely what happened. One minute he’s talking to Matt on the couch and cleaning his wounds, and the next he’s _palming_ him. 

He knows Matt wants it, wants his hands on his body like the whore he is. He’s seen all the signs—Matt stares at him too long, stares at specific places like his lips and his eyes. He isn’t Daredevil for nothing, Catholicism be damned. (Vladimir’s done his own research on the boy). 

And Vladimir wouldn’t mind a casual fuck. He wouldn’t mind being a—what is it here?— booty call, as long as he gets some. Specifically, as long as he gets to fuck. He has a feeling Matt would enjoy being the one getting fucked. 

But he knows, in hindsight, what he did was the wrong way to go about it. If Anatoly was here, he would be chewing his head off for the stunt he pulled. It fills Vladimir with a sharp pain. He wouldn’t go back and change what he did, though, if he could. Regrets are nothing but regrets; they don’t get things done. And he doesn’t regret it anyway. Matt needs to learn his place. And realize that Vladimir doesn’t do fucking cuddling shit like those gay-ass men in the movies. He isn’t gay; he just likes to fuck.

He isn’t his brother, who would willingly start a relationship and cultivate intimacy. Vladimir doesn’t do that shit. He handled the fear half of the operation, the half that got things done by force, by commanding respect. Anatoly was the one who let go of pride and agreed to things neither of them wanted but needed. And he did it till the very end. His brother was always predictable and reliable, and he the opposite. They were complete, a team, Vladimir laments.

Vladimir heads to his hotel room for the night. He groans, realizing he’ll be sleeping on another shitty bed. Matt’s bed was comfortable. Maybe for that reason alone he might regret what he’s done.

But Vladimir thinks, seriously thinks. He replays the scene in his head: Matt asking what Vladimir wants, and asking for a semblance of control over his own sight. He understands the need for control. He himself craved it, and spat back at those who pulled power away from him as he was growing up and growing to be a ruler of men. 

But no one hands shit to you; you have to grab it. Matt must learn this. It’s a wonder he hasn’t already, seeing that he patrols the streets in his tight costume, pretending to be a hero. 

He has a nice ass, though, and it would look perfect around his cock. And Vladimir would fuck him good.

Arousal thrums through Vladimir. He groans internally as his dick twitches with interest. He hasn’t gotten laid in a while. Maybe tonight that should change…

He walks into the hotel, and takes the elevator up to his room. 

He thinks of the former half of what Matt had asked, of what Vladimir wanted, if he had wanted him. He knows Matt hadn’t finished the sentence, too shy to continue. But he understood the meaning. And he thought he had made it clear the night they spent in bed.

But Matt appeared too frightened after his shower, even though he asked Vladimir to stay, and so, Vladimir did nothing. He easily could have—and normally would have—but no.

He’ll just have to fix that and make himself clearer later. But right now, he wants a blowjob.

———

Matt’s tired, a bone-deep sort that makes him languish in his bed. He curls into himself, flitting in and out of wakefulness. He’s grateful for the comfort of his own bed, even though it smells of Vladimir if he accidentally moves too much to the other side. He avoids that space, sinking his face into his pillow to smell himself, aftershave and all.

It grounds him, smelling just himself. Because he never feels that way. He’s always _connected_ , to something, anything. He hears too far, smells too far, and thinks too long, and he can’t shut it all _off_.

But he’s been too tired to think today, and that’s great in itself, except that he has no control over the rest of his senses. And it can easily become chaos.

Vladimir is breaking him.

When he finally gets out of bed, it’s midday and he’s hungry but he doesn’t want to eat anything. He cleans out the remains of the coffee table out of necessity, and then decides to meditate, hoping it will bring him some stability. It does, for a little while. 

He has to field a few calls from Foggy and Karen asking after him. Foggy offers to come over, but Matt refuses his help. In the past, his refusal would have meant nothing, and Foggy would have helped him anyway. It would have been made easier by the fact that Foggy would have actually seen how sick he would have been and so, would have refused to listen to Matt’s, “I’m fine”’’s. He doesn’t know if Foggy will still come now.

 

 

It’s around six when the doorbell rings. The voice comes through the door, and says, “Matt, open up. It’s me, Foggy.”

Matt sighs, and in a pair of sweats and a zip-up, makes his way to the door. He’s slightly surprised, but mostly relieved. Foggy can’t be too mad at him if he’s still looking after him like this.

Matt assumes he looks horrible enough to appear sick. When he opens the door, Foggy says, “Hey buddy! How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright, Foggy,” he says, and steps aside. The lie slips out like truth, but it sounds like one to his ears. 

“Dude, you don’t look alright.”

“Then I guess it’s good I didn’t come into work today,” he says.

“Well, I brought you some soup. Did you eat today?”

Matt thinks for a few moments, and then answers, “Probably not as much as I should have.”

Foggy walks with him over to the couch and starts at the lack of the coffee table: “Dude, where’s your coffee table?”

Matt doesn’t answer, but he grabs a chair from the counter and it serves as a makeshift table. Foggy places the soup on the chair. He unwraps the utensils and hands them to Matt, while Matt just sits there. It feels nice to be looked after, and he revels in it, especially since— He stops that thought in its tracks.

There’s silence as Matt starts eating the soup, and he relaxes as the warmth enters his body. As he eats, Foggy asks, “So are you going to tell me how you got that cut on your chin? And where the coffee table went? And no bullshit about falling, Matt.”

Matt decides, because Foggy already knows, that there’s no use in hiding anything from him about that cut on his chin, especially since telling him won’t put him in danger. He swallows down the soup and says, “There was a scuffle last night, and the guy I was fighting cut me.”

“Did you kick his ass?”

“I broke his nose,” Matt chuckles.

Whatever Foggy was about to say next is left unsaid, because the door opens, and Matt’s on instant alert. Who—

The footsteps stop, and there’s silence for a few moments.

“Who are you?” Foggy asks.

“Who are you?” the voice that sounds exactly like Vladimir returns.

Horror floods him, leaving him cold, and there’s tendrils of fear starting to climb him. “What are you doing here, Vladimir?” In his mind, Matt knows that Vladimir is oddly early; he usually makes his way over at night. He didn’t even think he was going to come back. Of all the times—

“I’m Matt’s best friend, Foggy,” Foggy says, and Matt hears and feels him get up. “Matt didn’t tell me he was going to have visitors.”

Matt laughs dryly, “I wasn’t aware either,” but it comes out a little shaky. He instantly knows everyone in the room knows how shaky it sounded.

“Then what are you doing here?” Foggy demands of Vladimir. He sounds angry.

This can’t possibly be happening to him right now.

“Vladimir, why are you here?” he asks. He puts down the soup, and interlocks his fingers tightly in his lap to keep himself from shaking. He isn’t looking toward Vladimir.

“I come every day,” he answers.

“Your motel room not good enough for you?” Matt asks, almost sneers. He can feel fury begin to fill him. Yes, this is what he needed.

“Better than this shithole,” he answers, “But, eh.”

“Matt, what the hell is going on? What does he mean by ‘I come every day’?”

“Oh he does not know,” Vladimir says and makes a tsk-tsk sound, and then laughs. 

Matt hears him walk toward him, and he gets up from the couch, taking rapid steps back. If Vladimir touches him now—If he—

Matt hears Foggy step in front of him protectively. “You’re not welcome here,” Foggy says.

“You think you can stop me?” Matt hears Vladimir ask.

He can almost hear him lean in threateningly. Matt doesn’t want a repeat of last night, and it’s beginning to sound a lot like it.

“Foggy, move out of the way,” he says quietly.

“No way, Matt! I’m not going anywhere.”

Vladimir laughs and he starts to push Foggy aside. Foggy retaliates by attempting to punch Vladimir, who blocks his punch easily. Matt takes this moment to step between them, and holds onto Vladimir’s wrist. He gasps again at the feeling of pure power flow through him and watches his vision return.

He looks at Vladimir, looks into his eyes, and watches them soften slightly. Matt closes his eyes—he can’t deal with seeing Vladimir’s face—and takes in a breath. He knows that he’ll have to turn around. He’ll be seeing Foggy’s face for the first time ever. 

His heart beats fast, and he’s shaking slightly. Thankfully, Vladimir doesn’t seem to be saying anything else.

Matt turns around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... I'm guessing that's not the way all of you thought Vlad would meet Foggy...


	12. It's so Hard for Me to Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good try, Matt. Who knew you were just really good at acting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the long-awaited fallout.
> 
> Here's some more angst, guys.
> 
> Also, lol, I'm running out of Black Sun lyrics. Why did I keep to this song in the first place.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

He sees Foggy’s face, the brown color of his brows and eyes, the lines and colors of his lips, the shape of his nose, the color of his skin. He’s struck, struck still by all the details of Foggy’s face. And Matt realizes Foggy looks confused, and then heartbroken, and then furious.

“You can see‽” he yells, and Matt coils into himself slightly. But he can’t move, can’t hide himself in shame.

Vladimir slips his hand into Matt’s. He stands there and watches as Foggy yells at Matt.

“Are you for real? Are you even blind at all? Were you just faking this entire time? I can’t _believe_ this. I thought we had gone through this already!”

“Foggy, I—“

“No, don’t ‘Foggy’ me! You should have told me! You should have said something! And wait… Vladimir, that’s the guy from— That’s the Russian mobster! The crime lord who was working for Fisk! Why are you holding his hand? Are you,” Foggy sputters, “ Are you sleeping with him?You’re gay‽”

“I—“

“Do I even know you at all?”

“Of course you do,” Matt says. “I haven’t lied about anything else! I haven’t—“

A sort of roiling guilt begins within him as he realizes the full extent of what he said.

“How can I know for sure? How can I know for sure that you aren’t keeping other secrets from me? Is your name even Matt Murdock?”

Matt feels himself begin to fall apart. He can feel the tears prick his eyes, and he’s going to do it, he’s going to cry _again._ This is a personal record for the adult Matt Murdock. Matt feels weak.

At that moment, his sight cuts out and Vladimir’s hand leaves his. 

“What— Where— I can’t see.”

“Good try, Matt. Who knew you were just really good at acting.”

“What, no, Foggy, I— Vladimir, where did you go? Where—”

“And where the hell are you going?”

“Somewhere that’s not here,” Vladimir answers.

He reaches out with his hands, but there’s nobody there, nobody in reach. He doesn’t know where Vladimir stepped off to (he knows he’s leaving), where Foggy even is. He doesn’t even know where he’s standing anymore, and that breaks him.

Matt falls to his knees, and he clutches his head in his hands. Tears stream freely down his face, and he sobs. Everything he pushed inside himself comes out. All the pain, the guilt, it comes and consumes him, encircles him.

“Please just make it stop,” Matt sobs, and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but he asks it anyway. “Just make it stop.”

He feels completely alone, sitting there on the floor. It’s as if there’s a hurricane around him, a hurricane of sound, smells, everything, and they all blend together and it’s too much, it’s too much to handle. It’s as if everything Stick ever taught him dissipated. It’s not in his memory banks. 

His intake of breath speeds up, and distantly, Matt knows he’s hyperventilating, but he doesn’t know, remember really, how to stop it. 

“Matt? Matt. Matt, listen to me. You gotta take deep breaths, okay? Deep— Shit I don’t know how to handle this. Um, okay, deep breaths buddy, deep breaths,” Foggy says, as he wraps his arms around Matt’s frame.

Matt’s head lies against Foggy’s chest and he focuses on just his heartbeat. He tries to match his breathing to it in a way, and there’s false tries where his breathing cuts and he has to start again. But eventually, it starts to help. He clutches onto Foggy for dear life. Bless him, for still staying here, even after Matt has ruined their friendship. 

When his breathing evens, Matt is beyond tired. And he’s grateful to be able to hold onto Foggy like this.

He breathes against Foggy, who holds him with a grip that says he refuses to let go.

“You’re going to tell me everything Matt. Absolutely everything. You said you wouldn’t keep anything from me anymore. Why did you?”

Matt tries to bury his face in his best friend, the one who’s always been there for him, for a few seconds, and then he pulls back. Fresh tears leak out of his eyes, and he says, voice breaking, “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t,” he laughs, “I didn’t understand for myself what was happening. How was I supposed to explain it to someone else?”

He sniffles and wipes his tears with the back of his hand. 

“Are you sleeping with him?” Foggy asks. “Is he Valerie?”

“He is Valerie, and it’s, it’s—complicated.”

“Complicated? You have to do better than that. You owe me that.”

“I haven’t slept with him, thank God.”

“Were you going to?”

Matt’s silent for a few moments. 

“Matt?”

“Yes. I wanted to. Eventually.” And Matt surprises himself at his admission. He didn’t realize he had thought that far ahead, that he had found a time in his future where he accepted Vladimir for what he is: a dirty, hard criminal forged from the streets. _That he had accepted himself as maybe bisexual…_

“But I thought… I was so sure you were straight, dude, with being Catholic and all.”

A pang of guilt goes through Matt, and he puts his face in his hand. His stomach curls, and he feels vaguely nauseous. “I thought so too. I guess I never really learned that side of myself,” Matt says.

“It’s not like you had time to,” Foggy jokes, “since you were studying all the time.”

Matt chuckles, and sniffles. “Yeah, I guess.”

There’s another moment of silence, and Foggy asks, “So all those girls in college…”

“They were all girls, Foggy,” Matt says quietly, “And there were only a few. Not as many as you think.”

“How many is a few?”

“I honestly don’t remember, but I know it wasn’t many,” Matt says. 

There’s a silence, and Matt feels a pang of pain. “Really, Foggy. Just girls,” he says quietly, beginning to coil into himself. 

There’s another awkward silence, and then Matt gets the feeling Foggy’s holding back. 

“Just ask, Foggy.”

“Okay, so, explain to me this. How were you able to see just now? Like what sorta superpowers do you have, man? What’s going on?”

“When I tou—hold onto Vladimir, for some odd reason, I can see. I have no idea why. This doesn’t happen with anyone else.”

“How did you find out?”

“He bumped into me on the street, and I just— It’s confused and shocked me ever since. I don’t know what’s going on Foggy. I don’t know why it’s him. He’s a terrible person, but for some reason, he’s the reason I can see.”

“That’s really fucking weird, dude, like past weird. This is insane. I wouldn’t believe you if you said this without me actually seeing it.”

“That’s why I didn’t know how to tell you,” Matt says quietly.

“But you still should have,” Foggy counters.

Matt curls in on himself further. “I should have.”

“Karen’s going to hate you,” Foggy says.

‘We can’t—“

“I’m not keeping this from her too, dude! I can’t keep keeping your secrets! I can’t do that!”

“Foggy, please,” Matt begs.

“Please, what, Matt? You can’t make me keep this secret too!”

“Foggy, please,” Matt begs, quieter and more desperate.

There’s a growl and then a, “Fine! But don’t get mad at me when shit goes down and it could have been prevented because you were too busy keeping a stupid secret.”

“Thank you.”

Foggy gets up off the floor and Matt follows suit. Foggy asks, “Are you gonna be alright?”

Matt laughs brokenly. “Alright as I’ll ever be,” he says.

Foggy doesn’t say anything, but Matt hears his receding footsteps and knows he’s leaving.

But then Foggy yells, “What the hell are you still doing here?”

“What—“ Matt starts.

Matt realizes too late that there’s a second heartbeat in the room. The blood rushes away from the top half of his body as he realizes that Vladimir heard everything, absolutely everything. 

“You’re a dick!” Foggy yells.

“You fat shit,” Vladimir sneers.

Matt quickly makes his way to where the two of them are standing. “Stop it! Both of you! Just leave,” Matt says. “Foggy, I’ll see you tomorrow at work. And Vladimir, I will not see you again.”

“Too bad,” Vladimir spits. “You see me today, tomorrow, and day after that. I never leave, until I want to.”

“If Matt never wants to see you again, he _never wants to see you again_ ,” Foggy yells.

“You make me leave?” Vladimir challenges. “My fist hit your face first!”

“Stop it!” Matt yells, anger finally behind it.

“You going to make me?” Vladimir laughs. “You cry like baby.”

Matt shoves him up against the wall, their skins touching so Matt and Vladimir lock eye contact. “But I fight like an animal in a cage,” Matt says, throwing Vladimir’s words right back at him.

“Fuck like that too?” Vladimir smirks.

Matt slams him against the wall.

“Stop it, both of you!” Foggy yells. 

Vladimir licks his lips. He leans in, but as soon as Matt catches onto to what he’s doing, he lets him go and moves back.

“Just leave,” Matt says.

“I come back tomorrow,” Vladimir says, as he walks toward the door.

Matt’s shoulders sag. 

“You want me to call the police?” Foggy asks, when Vladimir has left the apartment.

“No, I don’t— No, it’s fine.”

“This isn’t fine, Matt! Was he— Was he about to—”

Terror latches onto Matt. “No,” Matt lies.

His face burns with the intensity of the lie, and he knows Foggy can see right through it. Before Foggy can comment, he says, “Yes.”

Foggy is quiet for a few moments. “Did you want him to?”

“Not like this,” Matt says quietly, resignedly. He pushes his palms into his eyes as Foggy sighs, saying, “How the fuck do you get into shit like this, Matt?”

A desperate fury fills him and his shoulders tense, and then it leaves just as quickly as it came. His shoulders sag, and he says, “I don’t know.”

The words come with acute pain.

Foggy scoffs, and Matt winces. 

“Goodbye, Matt,” Foggy says, and leaves his apartment. 

The door shuts with a ringing finality. He’s completely alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is currently on hiatus. I have to study for the MCATs so I don't really have time to continue it at the moment. I will continue this, however. I have no plans to leave it unfinished.


	13. Desert Veiled in Pavement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took something from Matt yesterday, he doesn’t entirely know what, but he begins to feel tendrils of regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bACK!

As Vladimir walks away, he understands something: that Matt does want him, does want to sleep with him. He knew before, but having this evidence in front of him—the surety of it—is different than functioning on conjecture, which, although is something he knows how to do well, doesn’t fare nearly as well with the real confidence that comes with working with substantiated information.

Vladimir sneers as he walks away. Filthy whore, that’s all Matt is. Like one of those girls in the backs of those vans. He could easily have fit in with them: thin, a little submissive, looking to please, crybaby.

But Vladimir knows that that image is not the only image of Matt. He feels almost ashamed for thinking of Matt only that way. There is a strength in him unrivaled by anything. He would not go down without a fight, especially fighting for something as crippling as his sight. Vladimir knows, deep within himself, that they are deadlocked as fighters. Neither would win. Matt with his skill and Vladimir with his strength. They are two sides necessary to create a perfect one. He begins to wonder whether Anatoly would have been better suited for Matt at all. Better suited emotionally, he supposes. His first instinct today with Matt looking so shattered was to run. But he felt stuck. He has never felt that way before, never with others mewling and screaming for their world of pain to end. He had a reason for their suffering, after all.

Anatoly would not have shied away from that emotional cuddling shit as he did. He perhaps did during their tenure as kings but not out spite; he denied himself a pleasure, because he was well self-disciplined and needed to create a sort of fearsome personality. 

And Vladimir’s chest swells in pain and in pride, knowing that his brother was better than he in that respect. But Vladimir was self-disciplined too. There are many things he denied himself, things that he _deserved!_ And things were taken away from him, things that he also deserved. He had to take the things that he deserved by force, and forge his way to power, forge his way to a new empire completely of his and his brother’s own makings. They had _created!_

And it had all turned to dust, eroded by the currents of the waves and ideas of a stupid man hellbent on “saving his town.” _Mudak_ Fisk, safely rotting in jail.

Vladimir seethes at the thought of that fat shit still living while his brother rots in his grave. He turns over a trashcan in an alleyway in his anger, and stops to look at the mess. It wasn’t enough just to throw the can; nothing will ever be enough in healing the pain within him. 

Vladimir leans against the wall, and slides to the ground, his hand scrunching his blond hair between his hands. He can feel the tears threaten to fall in his eyes. And in a moment of pure sorrow and despair, Vladimir breaks. “ _Moy brat,”_ he cries, and the tears slip down his face. “ _Moy brat, why did you leave me? Why did you leave me here alone?”_

Sobs wrack his frame, and Vladimir struggles to pull himself together, balling his hair in his hands, pushing his forearm against his eyes to cover the flow of tears. Around him, the flow of traffic doesn’t stop, the sounds of New York continue onward, and Vladimir feels fury that nothing stops when he grieves, that the world is content to leave him behind and to watch his brother decompose and turn into dust. Anguish fills him that it is not he who is decomposing, but Anatoly, the better of the two. Anatoly, who deserved this shot of happiness that no vodka could ever give them. Anatoly, who deserved the goodness of Matthew, who would not have hurt him, who would not have had reason to. 

“ _What do I do?”_ he asks him. “ _What do I do with what I’ve been given? I do not deserve him,”_ he sobs, and realizes the full extent of what he has just said. 

Vladimir quickly wipes his tears as he hears someone approach. As he gets up, though, his eye catches something black and shiny on the ground. It’s a stick, almost, but— Vladimir laughs brokenly when he realizes exactly what it is: a walking stick. 

He turns his own words round and round in his head: ‘I do not deserve him. I do not deserve him.’ Vladimir doesn’t remember a time he refused something he had gotten, of a time he did not feel worthy.

He faintly hears someone pass him by, but gives them no mind.

He wipes the remnants of tears from his face and wonders why anyone would throw the stick out, as he picks it up. It’s not broken and the paint isn’t really chipped. Then he realizes that he doesn’t remember seeing it in the trashcan he turned over. Which means no one threw it out. Or someone did and it was left behind.

But he feels, for some reason, that no one threw it out, that it was accidentally left behind, forgotten. Like him. And he knows with a sort of solid dreadful understanding, that it is Matt’s. 

Even when he leaves Matt, he still sees parts of him chase after him. Vladimir tenses at the thought. He doesn’t want to return Matt’s affections, not in the way Matt wants. Vladimir wants to fuck—maybe a few times if Matt’s good—and leave it at that. He doesn’t attach. He cannot, no longer has the ability to. And he does not deserve him.

What can Vladimir offer him? Vladimir is a criminal, forged from the streets, a created disaster. He has killed and he has hurt. He is not on the same side of someone who propels justice, who wants to spread equity, especially since that equity doesn’t exist; it’s just an idea. The hierarchy of power is what’s real. Matt cannot change him, cannot make him into a “better” man, by Matt’s standards. With a history like Vladimir’s, no man can become that idea of good. No man wants to.

And Vladimir doesn’t want to become “good.” He _is_ good. He doesn’t need Matt’s definition of it to tell him differently. Everything he did was for a reason: to move forward, to establish himself.

But his mind betrays him with the faces of the dead, and Vladimir despairs. He never once thought of these people when Anatoly was by his side. It’s as if the empty space of his brother is filled with the ghosts of his past, ghosts that apparently desire to be lain to rest or be acknowledged, at least.

Vladimir understands in that moment that he is going to suffer, that his brother’s death was only the beginning. And true suffering is one made by one’s actions. He has created his own personal hell with no way out.

He can’t go back into the business, because even though others had offered to restart it, he couldn’t see himself in power alone. And everyone will know of the failures of the Russian brothers, will tell his story like midnight ghost stories. He cannot return to a business that has turned his story into a frightful legend; this is not the way he wanted to have his name remembered.

Vladimir is stuck. A failure of a human being, a failure of a man, a failure.

The only option he has left is Matt, specifically because he knows that his brother would want him to follow that route and see where it leads, even if Matt is from a completely different world. He believes in peace and equality; Vladimir does not. Vladimir wants to rage.

He understands suddenly, though, that Matt would not be Daredevil if he did not want to rage too. They are similar in that respect. He has never thought about it in depth before; he just assumed Matt was playing his role of the hero as he was the apparent villain.

Vladimir fingers the black walking stick. He could not kill Fisk to avenge his brother, but he can do what he knows his brother would want him to do.

He wants to go back, return a piece of Matt. He understands in that moment that he means more than the walking stick in his hand. He took something from Matt yesterday, he doesn’t entirely know what, but he begins to feel tendrils of regret. 

He wants to be able to call a place home. There’s no place he’s frequented more than Matt’s apartment, not even the bars. 

His brother was home to him, and he to his brother. But now that that home has perished, he must create another from its ashes. He feels this with a dreadful certainty, that this is what Anatoly would have wanted him to do. Younger, but wise, Vladimir thinks. He remembers Anatoly as a young boy looking up at him, eyes wide in excitement as Vladimir told him a story, one after the other until Anatoly would ask if they would be like the kings in the stories.

And Vladimir would always tell him that they would, of course they would, how could Anatoly ever think any differently? And Anatoly’s mouth would curve into a smile fit enough to make any of the girls blush. “ _We will be kings_ ,” he would say.

Vladimir bets he never expected to die before they truly got there.

Vladimir grips the walking stick a little tighter. Maybe they don’t have to be kings; maybe he could learn what it really means to be human, to have a life when one was so brutally taken from him. Where everything isn’t just to survive on a hierarchy, to maybe follow this idea called equity of Matt’s. To understand Matt, and the power he’s been given here. To make him smile blindly, the way his brother used to as a child. For some reason, Vladimir finds that important.

He lost some of that—what is it, _humanity—_ getting to where he is. He understands that his life has made him coarse.

He knows he doesn’t want to see that expression of utter betrayal on Matt’s face ever again, knows that he would never have wanted to see it on Anatoly’s, he feared it in his nightmares. And Anatoly would always soothe him, snuggle into bed next to him—because he was eight and Vladimir was sixteen—and Vladimir would hold onto him, soothed by the presence of his kin.

They were close, Anatoly and he, of course, but never anything untoward. He remembers that when Anatoly turned 18, that that was when he began to see him as an equal. And they turned their dreams into an empire. 

And now Matt is his next project, given to him by the grace of a God he no longer believes in. He must be the empire Vladimir has to build.

———

Matt retires to bed as soon as Foggy and Vladimir leave. He replays the events in his head, and he flinches again and again at the way Vladimir behaved. Something changed in the past few days, and he knows it has to do with Anatoly, that speaking of him broke him, broke whatever progress they had made.

And he knows now that Vladimir is very prone to bursts of anger, but he can’t walk on eggshells around him. He doesn’t have the energy to. And Matt knows that this could be considered abusive. But their relationship, if he can even call it that, isn’t exactly typical.

He gets the feeling that Vladimir doesn’t really know what he’s doing though, that he sort of switches back to something he understands, something primal, rather than face the emotional difficulty that lies ahead.

Matt realizes that Vladimir does not understand how to process his own emotions. He knows Vladimir cares about him somewhat, knows it in the way his eyes soften when he looks at him, in the way he looks like a deer in headlights whenever they are entering a careful conversation (usually about the way Matt feels about something, he notes with sadness). Vladimir doesn’t speak, doesn’t really reach out, and it’s the most frustrating thing he has ever encountered. Foggy _always_ told him what was on his mind, what he thought of things, when he was sad and when he was happy, and Vladimir does absolutely _none_ of that. How could God have given him someone so unwilling to make a connection? So coarse in nature?

Is Vladimir what God has given him? And what of the homosexuality aspect of it? How can what’s supposed to be a gift be such a curse?

And Matt almost laughs, because he asked the same question when he learned of his abilities. And he learned, eventually, that the gift was a curse as well as to give him a purpose. He must shepherd the good and protect his own. But he still shies away from that idea, because if he can feel the devil within him when he thinks he’s doing the right thing, then is he really doing the right thing? If a part of him loves the thrill of the fight, loves all the wrong things about what he’s doing, then how can he be completely good?

Matt lies in bed, and he wonders. Did Vladimir know the effect he had on Matt when he brutally teased him with the kiss? When he felt him without his permission?

Did he feel him get hard?

Shame rushes through Matt, and he curls into himself tighter. He didn’t want that. He didn’t. But then why did his body betray him that way?

As Matt lies there, he hates himself more and more. It’s easy to fall right back into that same pattern.

Why is this happening to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there's a lot of crap going on in my life right now, and I'm no longer taking MCATs this year. But I think I'm ready to start updating this fic again.


	14. And there is "Yours" and there is "Mine"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stares at him open-mouthed for a few moments, and then his cheeks color and he looks down.

When Matt comes back from work at the end of the day, he has his heart set on heading to the boxing ring. He fast-walks back to the apartment, taking the elevator up to his floor, and before he even enters his apartment, he hears a heartbeat in it.

Matt pauses at the door. Fear has him standing still, and he doesn’t know if he wants to open the door to the man inside. He doesn’t want a repeat of the night on the couch; he knows Vladimir could easily overpower him with his strength. He knows he could hold his own for a while, but that they are matched.

Matt licks his lips, bites them, and inhales. He rests his hand on the doorknob, and turns it, walking in. He heads straight to the bedroom, has no intention in making conversation with the man who keeps breaking into his apartment and into his life. But he can only keep the gig up for so long, because Vladimir says, “I know you see me.”

“I can’t see, Vladimir,” Matt says, bitterness clutching onto his words.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

Matt grits his teeth. He refrains from asking what Vladimir wants, and heads over to his wardrobe. 

“I found your stick,” Vladimir says.

And Matt wonders for a few seconds if he’s making a dirty, base sexual joke, but there was no jest in his words. Vladimir’s heart is actually beating a little faster than normal.

“What stick?” Matt asks, paused in front of his wardrobe.

“Eh… Walking stick,” Vladimir says.

He hears footsteps, and Vladimir’s hand is on his hand. His sight fades in and he looks at their hands on top of each other, on top of the door of the wardrobe. And then he looks over to see Vladimir holding out a walking stick.

Matt’s eyes widen in understanding. He had been missing it for a while, but had given up looking for it. But how did Vladimir know it was his?

“Where did you find it?” Matt asks, and he’s looking at Vladimir now over the length of their arms. 

“Behind trash can,” Vladimir answers.

Matt feels confusion, but a slight curling of pleasure beneath it, unfurl within him. Vladimir looks at him, uncomfortable, still holding out the stick. Matt grabs it, ungracefully really, from over his arm, and he puts in his wardrobe. He’ll deal with it later.

“Thanks,” he says.

Vladimir only nods, but he doesn’t let go of Matt’s hand. Matt looks pointedly at his hand, and Vladimir looks a little cowed before he lifts it.

“Is that all?” Matt asks. “You broke into my apartment to give me back my walking stick?”

Vladimir’s heart begins to beat faster. Matt can feel him struggle with himself over what he wants to say. He eventually hears him scoff, and hears footsteps walking toward the door.

Matt acts quickly, without almost knowing it. He holds onto Vladimir’s wrist with his hand, and looks him square in the eye. “Is that all you came to do?” he asks again, a kind authority in his voice. He’s proud when his voice doesn’t shake.

He cannot give up on this man so easily, not when he holds the key. He knows Vladimir’s return of his walking stick was an apology, but he wants to hear him say it, wants to feel the rush of that apology in his body. He needs it, or they cannot move forward.

Vladimir looks at him, uncomfortable but too stubborn to refuse eye contact. He knows that if he says the wrong thing, he might destroy what he just tried to do. He feels cowed by the man standing in front him, feels a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He does not want to hurt him. So he does something that even Anatoly would think was completely unprecedented. He apologizes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words taste foreign and weird on his tongue, more weird and foreign than American words.

Matt’s entire face brightens as Vladimir says the words, and Vladimir wonders how his own words could have that much of an effect. Just when did his input become important to Matt?

“Will you do it again?” Matt asks, and Vladimir sees a desperate hope within his eyes but also a strength.

“No,” Vladimir says, and it comes easier to him, because it is truth and he does not want to hurt him that way again.

He understands, in this moment, that because Matt keeps giving him chances, that Matt must care for him. He has no fucking idea why, aside from the light thing, but he realizes this now. 

Matt watches Vladimir’s face change, in the way he grimaces when he apologizes, in the naked fear in his eyes when he looks at Matt’s face after he apologizes.

They are, Matt knows, on the same page now, somehow. He doesn’t understand how exactly Vladimir got to that point. He doesn’t know why Vladimir actually took the olive branch for what it was and apologized. He doesn’t think Vladimir has ever apologized for anything in his life. Matt says so, teasing him.

“I have not ever said sorry,” Vladimir says, face twisting with the memory of the apology. “I have not had to. They did not deserve it.”

And Matt understands the unspoken message here, that Matt did deserve one. 

Vladimir curls his hand around Matt’s and pulls him to the couch. When they sit, they put their feet up, giving each other short, knowing grins. They rest there as Matt closes his eyes and rests back against the couch. 

When he opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings—the muted-ness of them—he breathes a sigh of relief. He feels so unconnected or less so, and it should be jarring, but he feels alone—with the exception of the connection he feels with Vladimir because of Vladimir’s warm hand around his own. It feels a sort of complete that he wasn’t sure he would ever get. Matt smiles, and when he looks over at Vladimir, he finds him staring at him. 

“Like what you see?” Matt asks, and then colors because he didn’t realize he knew how to flirt with men.

Vladimir looks taken aback for only a moment, but then a slow grin spreads across his face, and he says, “Very much.”

Matt blushes and looks away. Vladimir links their fingers together. They awkwardly look around until Vladimir says, “You need TV.”

“I didn’t have a use for it before,” Matt says.

“You need now,” Vladimir says.

“I guess I do.”

There’s another silence, and Matt thinks of things to say. What should he say? What _could_ he say? Speaking of Anatoly was off the list. Speaking of how Vladimir made him feel when he harassed him wasn’t something Matt ever wanted to talk about. It’s enough he had to live through it. He really didn’t want to retell it. And Vladimir apologized anyway.

He’s brought out of his thoughts when Vladimir asks, “You wanna fuck?”

He stares at him open-mouthed for a few moments, and then his cheeks color and he looks down.

“Um,” Matt starts.

“Fuck,” Vladimir curses.

It was meant to be quiet, but it was very clearly heard. Matt bites his lip to keep from laughing. Vladimir notices, and his expression becomes lighter. He pulls Matt closer by pulling his hand. 

“So. You want?” 

Vladimir has a stupid grin on his face that falters slightly when Matt laughs uncomfortably. “Not—Not yet,” he says, “but maybe someday soon.”

“In an hour?”

Matt laughs. “No, Vlad.”

“Three hours.”

Matt laughs again, and the tension melts from his shoulders when he realizes Vladimir isn’t really pushing him but joking with him. He feels a wave of affection come over him and he leans into Vladimir’s space, leans agains him. “No, Vlad,” he says, chuckling. Matt feels the warmth of Vladimir seep into his frame.

Vladimir tenses slightly at the contact, but then relaxes at the affection he sees in Matt’s eyes. In that moment, he realizes how beautiful his eyes truly are. He feels like an idiot for not having noticed it before.

He leans in closer to Matt, and now they’re close enough to breathe the same air. Matt’s breath catches, Vladimir notes, and his eyes widen slightly. He doesn’t feel a warm ghost of breath on his face, so he knows Matt must be holding it. Vladimir waits in front of Matt, inches away from Matt’s face, and looks at his lips and his eyes, back and forth. He leans just a little closer, and he waits.

Matt licks his lips, heart racing, and he doesn’t know if he can do this, if he’s allowed to, because if he does, there’s no turning back, there’s no way back. He’ll be breaking ties with his own roots bit by bit, but _God,_ does he want this, does he want Vladimir’s lips on his. In those few precious moments, Matt’s resolve breaks and he lets himself _want._

He surges in and catches Vladimir’s lips with his own, and Vladimir lets out a pleased moan. Surprise gently ripples through him at the roughness of Vladimir’s face against his. It’s a new feeling, pleasant. He feels stubble, and arousal shoots straight to his groin.

Matt feels Vladimir’s hand warmth seep into his work shirt from its new position around his waist and he briefly parts with him to move himself closer, putting his arms around Vladimir’s shoulders.

They kiss, and Vladimir pulls at the fabric of Matt’s work shirt, pulls it out of Matt’s pants, and Matt breaks the kiss. “I don’t—“

Vladimir kisses him gently, pulls out the material, and rests his hand against the bare skin of Matt’s frame. 

“Oh,” Matt breathes, and then bites his lip and smiles before going for Vladimir’s lips again. 

Vladimir does the same for the other side of Matt’s shirt, and then they break apart briefly—solely by Vladimir’s choice—so Vladimir can pull Matt into his lap.

It’s different, Matt notes. He can feel the warmth, the flesh and blood of Vladimir beneath him, and it excites him to feel this way. It’s always been the other way around; he’s always pulled the woman into his lap, hands around their waists, hands sliding, feeling. He blushes at how he must look in Vladimir’s lap and bites his lip, looking down. Vladimir takes in his pinkish face, sports something between a smirk and a smile, and gently pulls him in for another kiss. And then there’s tongue and Matt lets out a few pleased hums into Vladimir’s mouth. Vladimir moans as their kiss becomes more heated.

Vladimir’s hands don’t stray into his pants. He doesn’t even finger his waistline, and Matt is glad. He can’t do anything else tonight, isn’t comfortable enough to. But this, this he can do.

It’s when he feels himself getting harder—almost past a certain point—that he pulls back, afraid. It wasn’t even a conscious choice, but he can’t—

Vladimir looks at him, looks at the fear in those eyes, and he feels a guilt overcome him. _He_ put that there.

Matt thinks of his ties to his religion, of Catholicism, one of the few things that gives his being meaning, and he just—

Vladimir takes one of his hands off of Matt’s frame and gently pushes Matt’s head closer to rest their foreheads together. They catch their breaths like this, Matt entering a sort of panic mode and Vladimir trying to keep the equilibrium. 

Vladimir caresses the back of Matt’s neck, almost clumsily because he doesn’t really know what he’s doing anymore. He’s not really used to this sort of stuff; he’s more about the act of sex, the passion behind it. But he’s seen the action in the movies so he thinks, ‘why the hell not?’ and he does it. It seems to help, as Matt melts against his frame.

And Vladimir’s hard too, hard because of their kissing but also because of Matt’s strong thighs on his own. He wants to hold that ass in his hands, knead it, and slide his hands down Matt’s thighs, feel the power in the them through his fingertips. He stops his thoughts before they make him harder.

Vladimir says something in Russian, and it sounds like a question.

Matt pulls back, and says, almost quietly, “I don’t understand what you said.”

Vladimir’s hand travels to Matt’s cheek, and he says, “You okay?”

Matt huffs a laugh, and his shoulders droop. He looks away and says, “I’m fine.”

Vladimir really looks at him, his profile in the light of the sign, the slightly unshaven face, and the pinched expression on his face. He knows Matt is not okay. He sees the same expression on Matt’s face that he has seen on Anatoly’s, the drooping shoulders, the tired and guilty look; he doesn’t know if it’s his place to say anything. So he doesn’t.

Matt makes to move from his lap, but Vladimir doesn’t let him. Just because he cannot say anything does not mean he will not do.

“Stay,” Vladimir says, a soft command, and Matt acquiesces. Matt does not want to face his own demons, not tonight.

“It is okay,” Vladimir says.

Matt wants to break, wants to say, ‘It isn’t! I’m developing feelings for a man! I kissed a man! How is any of this okay?’ But he says nothing.

Matt watches Vladimir struggle with something, his expression a sort of painful one, like it physically pains him to think about whatever it is he is thinking about, and then is struck and confused when Vladimir says, “Will not hurt you again. Will not.”

Matt stares at Vladimir for a few seconds, trying to comprehend what it is he is talking about, and it hits him: Vladimir is still thinking about when he palmed him. 

Matt licks his lips and opens his mouth to tell Vladimir that he had already forgiven him, that that was not what he was worried about, but he cannot bring himself to talk about his own demons like this, not so openly and this rawly. 

Matt tenses, and he says, agreeing, “It’s okay.”

And Vladimir looks at him, and knows that Matt doesn’t even believe his own words. He feels disgusted, and moves to pull himself away from Matt, careful to still keep a hold on his hand.

Matt lets him go. 

Vladimir sits next to him.

As the thoughts in Matt’s mind turn around and around and around, spinning so fast, Matt doesn’t realize he has said something until he says it: “I’m Catholic,” he says in a small voice.

Vladimir looks at him. “I know,” he says, confused. What does this have to— Oh.

“Then how—how could you have kissed me?”

There’s a silence and then Vladimir says, “Don’t know,” but he’s not thinking logistics, of religion; he’s thinking of why he leaned in toward Matt’s face in the first place.

Matt wants to scream. If for every time Vladimir said, “Don’t know,” he got a dollar, he’d be rich. And maybe they’d be able to pay for the office better.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Matt pushes. He can feel desperation begin to climb him.

The grip on his hand tightens, and Vladimir’s mouth forms a thin line. But he says again, “Don’t know,” more forcefully.

Matt looks away. He sighs and he feels that weight return to his shoulders, the weight of the world. Matt Murdock vs. the world. He may not be an official boxer, but he doesn’t have to be one because he’s already been thrown into the ring with very little knowledge of how to beat his opponent.


	15. Future Looks Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Volodya,” Vladimir says, and his shoulders and body stiffen, as if he has said something without meaning to. Vladimir looks down at him again, uncomfortable, and Matt doesn’t know how to react.
> 
> But then Matt says, “Volodya,” tasting the word on his tongue, finding he likes it. He feels that he’ll save Volodya for just the two of them, for whatever it is they’re kindling here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I haven't abandoned this piece; I've just been going through a lot these past couple months. 
> 
> I'm not a premed anymore, but I have no idea what field I want to go into next, so I've been trying to figure that out. 
> 
> And needless to say, I've been dealing with a lot of other issues.
> 
> This piece WILL be finished, if I have my way with it.
> 
> Aaaaand, I changed the chapter titles (this one's from OneRepublic) because I was running out of lyrics of Black Sun lmao and it feels maybe like a turning point in the story (and my life lmaooo). 
> 
> Enjoy!

Vladimir does leave that night, and Matt can’t remember if it was his imagination or reality that Vladimir swiped his thumb comfortingly over the back of Matt’s hand before he let go and left.

Vladimir does things that are very sweet at moments, but he does them so fast that Matt can’t tell whether they were real or fake. It drives him up the wall, and causes a turmoil of confusion within him. And then it makes him angry.

Matt feels pained at remembering the entire incident. He _liked_ kissing Vladimir, liked his hands on his waist, liked the taste of his mouth, the feel of his body underneath him. How could something he liked be so wrong? It _felt_ right, like he fit there somehow, like Vladimir will fit perfectly inside him.

Matt’s face wobbles and he knows he’s about to cry; he heads to his room and tries to blink away the tears. After changing out of his clothes, he curls up on his bed and lets the tears stream down his face. 

He has never cried more in these past couple of months than he has since he was around ten years old. The thought of it almost shames him. He had become very good at handling his emotions, at bottling them so as they did not spill everywhere. What happened? Where did all of his strength go?

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he wakes up in complete darkness, allowing his clock to tell him the time. And there’s a heartbeat in his room.

“Could not sleep,” Vladimir says, and moves to flop over onto the other side of Matt’s bed as soon as he knows Matt’s awake.

Matt feels calmer with Vladimir’s presence here, even though he knows Vladimir broke in.

“Did you fight?” Vladimir asks.

“No, I fell asleep when you left,” he says. ‘And I cried. Like a child,’ his mind adds on.

“Daredevil getting lazy,” he muses.

Matt curls in on himself. 

There’s a moment where no one moves, and then, surprisingly enough, Vladimir wraps himself around Matt’s frame slightly awkwardly. “You are Catholic, yes, but human too,” Vladimir says, as he grips Matt’s hand with his own. It’s a little sweaty.

Matt starts, and tenses as the power flows through him. He didn’t expect Vladimir to actually respond to him. It has almost always been one-sided, with Matt always attempting to initiate a discussion. And he didn’t expect comfort in this form. To be completely honest, he didn’t expect comfort at all. 

He is shocked into silence, and he has no idea what to say. The words bubble within him, but he holds his tongue, tears dried on his cheeks.

It’s beyond awkward lying there, sharing body heat with someone who is literally still a stranger to him, but Matt doesn’t know what else to do. He can feel the tense lines of Vladimir’s body against his own, the firmness of his legs pressed against the backs of his own. They’re both very tense against each other.

Matt asks, “Should I even bother getting you a key if you’ll just break in every time?”

Vladimir huffs a laugh, and the warmth hits the back of Matt’s neck. “No,” Vladimir laughs, “No key.” And then he pauses and says, “Maybe. Maybe key. Easy to come in and no one will call police.”

Matt laughs softly and says, “I’ll think about getting you one.” 

He moves to lie on his back, and Vladimir follows suit. His mind whirls with thoughts and possibilities, but he makes no move to voice them. They hold hands between them, and stare at the ceiling.

“Moy bratya,” Vladimir starts, and Matt looks at him. 

Vladimir stops, hand tightening on Matt’s. 

“What about him?” Matt asks, his voice carrying gently across the otherwise silent room.

Vladimir clenches his jaw briefly, clearly working through something, and Matt waits. 

“We used to share bed,” he says. “As children,” he adds.

“I was an only child,” Matt says. “What was it like having a brother?”

Vladimir smiles. “Fun,” he said. “And annoying.”

Matt laughs. “What was the most annoying thing he ever did?”

Vladimir groans and Matt tenses. Perhaps he’s overstepped his boundaries already? Perhaps—

Vladimir curses in Russian and then, with a smile on his face and his hand over his eyes, says, “He never stopped talking. Not as little boy, not as man.”

“Foggy’s like that,” Matt says, smiling. “He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going. But I’ve always liked that.”

They share the moment in silence. “Now he will never talk again,” Vladimir says.

Matt doesn’t want to ease his pain with platitudes, so he says nothing of the sort. “I feel that way about my father a lot,” he says quietly. 

Vladimir turns to him. “Your father?”

“He died when I was a young boy. Murdered. They didn’t find who killed him.”

“Is that why you are lawyer?”

Matt offers a resigned smile. “To bring justice to those who never receive it.”

It almost begins to ring false in his own ears. But they put Fisk away.

But how long until another crime lord takes his place? How long until Vladimir takes his place? Until he leaves Matt behind?

“Justice is false,” Vladimir sneers.

Matt is not inclined to agree, but he finds that he no longer disagrees either. Vladimir’s sudden arrival into his life as a permanent fixture has really rearranged and confused his priorities. 

They lay in silence, looking at the ceiling, and they fall asleep that way, lost in their own thoughts swirling above them. 

———

Matt wakes up warm, but feels held down in a way. He feels soft breathing beside him, right in the crook of his neck, and knows that Vladimir has wound himself around Matt.

Matt opens his eyes, seeing blurry colors for a second or two, and tenses. What if Vladimir reacts the same way as before? What if—

Vladimir makes an, “Mmm,” sound, and when he awakens, Matt feels it. Vladimir has gone stiff, and Matt waits for the inevitable. There’s a few seconds of awkwardness, in which Matt knows Vladimir is deciding on how he wants to react. 

And then. Out of his periphery, Matt sees Vladimir look down at him, after moving up. He must see his deer-in-headlights face, because when Matt braves himself and turns to Vladimir, Vladimir’s lips curve into a grin and he says, “Good morning, Matthew.”

Matt is unable to speak, his mouth open in surprise. He knows the grin is a little contrived, but there was effort made here today so Matt only relaxes and returns, “Good morning, Vlad.”

“Volodya,” Vladimir says, and his shoulders and body stiffen, as if he has said something without meaning to. Vladimir looks down at him again, uncomfortable, and Matt doesn’t know how to react. 

But then Matt says, “Volodya,” tasting the word on his tongue, finding he likes it. He feels that he’ll save Volodya for just the two of them, for whatever it is they’re kindling here.

And Vladimir relaxes when he hears his name spoken with respect. He doesn’t think Matt truly knows what he has just done. 

But Matt looks at him, and knows that they’ve just overcome some hurdle.

“I cook breakfast,” Vladimir says, holding onto Matt’s hand and pulling him out of bed.

Matt almost hisses at the cool air that hits his body when he’s pulled out of bed. Vladimir notices, grabs a blanket from one of the drawers—how did he know there were extras there?—and dumps it into Matt’s hands. He doesn’t wait for Matt to wrap it around his frame as he pulls him out of the bedroom.

“Vl—Volodya,” Matt says, pleased with himself—

And Vladimir stops, stares at Matt. He looks uncomfortable again, and Matt wants to wipe that look from his body, wants to chase it away with ki—

And Matt stops right there. He continues. “Let me put on the blanket at least,” he says, laughing, breaking the tension.

He attempts to pull the blanket around himself, and it sort of works, until Vladimir helps him. 

When Vladimir reaches the kitchen, he looks at his hand holding Matt and the kitchen. He could cook one-handed, has before, but it will be messy, he knows. Matt seems to understand, because he squeezes Vladimir’s hand once, before letting it go and going to sit down at the table. 

“One day you watch me cook,” Vladimir says. “And I cook everything,”

The ‘for you’ addition at the end of the sentence is implied, Matt knows, and he preens a little with the knowledge that Vladimir has thought of the future.

———

Matt goes to work feeling the world is finally on his side for once. Foggy shoots him glances and Karen only looks confused. She seems to know, though, that something is up, perhaps between Matt and Foggy. But Matt’s a little too happy to care.

He falls into workflow and work humor with ease, the way someone knows how to get lost in a book, and he’s about to head back into his office when Karen stops him. “Alright, Matt, tell us. What’s going on? You look like someone hung the moon.”

“It’s Valerie,” Matt blurts out.

Karen folds in her lips to keep from grinning, and asks, “What about her?”

Matt blushes, unable to even hide even behind his glasses, and says, biting his lip, “Things are good.”

“You _sure_ that Valerie’s treating you well?” Foggy cuts in.

“Yes, Foggy, h—she’s great.”

“Good. Because no one fucks with my best friend.”

Karen lets out a slightly astonished laugh. “Um, well, I’m glad things are going well for you. Was she the reason things weren’t going so well for the past couple months?”

Matt feels some of the seriousness reenter him. “Yes,” he says, quiet. 

Karen puts a comforting hand on his shoulder for a second, and says, “I’m glad things have worked out the way you want between you two.”

“Yeah, me too,” Foggy says, except from his tone, Matt can tell he isn’t all that glad at all.

Matt obviously can’t see, but he can feel some confusion in the air, and he doesn’t know how to properly clear it, so before things get out of hand, he decides to leave the room. “Thanks,” he says, looking where he feels Karen is, and then looking and nodding in the direction of Foggy. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”

He steps into his room, closes the door behind him, waiting for it to click, and makes his way to his chair. There’s a lot to get through today.

———

As soon as he makes it home, he has to field a phone call from Foggy. He groans, and Vladimir overhears. “What?” he asks.

The room smells of food, something he hasn’t smelled before, and Matt just nods his head. He doesn’t know how he’s going to even begin to explain things to Vladimir. But he realizes with a start that if Vladimir is going to stick around, the people closest to him have to know—and that includes, Claire and Karen. Well, Claire he can keep in the dark for awhile. (Matt feels guilt start up within him). 

Matt feels his heart sink, and then feels power rush through him when Vladimir places a hand on his neck. Matt tenses; he doesn’t entirely like that touch, where it’s placed. It feels possessive. Vladimir seems to notice, and he moves his hand to Matt’s cheek. It forces Matt to look at him, and Vladimir repeats, “What?”

“Nothing,” Matt says.

The hand tightens slightly, and Matt’s jaw sets. But then Vladimir’s thumb brushes against his stubbly cheek, and it moves. He feels the loss of power, and its return when Vladimir grabs his hand. 

Matt, frustrated with the fact that things never seem to stay one way, that things are good and then bad and back and forth but never follow one route, and says, “We’re a dilemma, Vladimir.”

Vladimir cocks an eyebrow, and scoffs, “Have always been dilemma.”

Matt laughs, almost sadly, and says, “Since day one.”

Vladimir makes a sound of agreement. “What is dilemma, Matthew?” he asks, and pulls Matt farther into the room. 

Matt has no idea how to address this question, doesn’t even know where to start with it. 

Vladimir looks at him, assessing. He offers no comfort in his gaze, and he watches Matt shuffle through different emotions that flit across his face, watches him struggle. A part of him delights in it, but he thinks of his brother, and he softens his gaze.

Matt looks away and bites his lip. “This is hard,” he whispers.

And Vladimir really looks at him, the perfect sort of inverted copy of himself, an opposite, a matched opponent. The copy who allows himself to be vulnerable around him. Because he trusts that Vladimir will not take advantage.

Matt takes a deep breath, releases it, and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, he says, “I have to tell Foggy and— that we’re actually together and that you’re staying—“

Matt starts. And then he asks haltingly, “We… are together, aren’t we?”

Vladimir’s words are right on his lips, the automatic, “Don’t know,” but he watches Matt shut down and armor himself; Matt knows the words are coming.

So Vladimir attempts to calm his palpitating heart, and the rolls his tense shoulders, and answers, “Yes.”

And then he turns round and heads right back to the kitchen, but not before he drags Matt along with him to source of the delicious-smelling food the pervades the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments because they are love and love is love is love and I certainly love all of you guys and the support that I've been getting<3!


	16. Let's Hurt Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s in hell, and my God, does he think he belongs there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some more beautiful pain for you.
> 
> Song title from the first song on OneRepublic's newest album Oh My My.
> 
> Unbeta'd

Matt is ecstatic.

And then.

He’s not.

Matt’s heart pounds at the implications of a simple word.

It’s an admission, clear as he’s ever heard one. But he never expected he’d hear one, although this is what he fights for, what he has always fought for. Even in the hush and tension of the court room, the anxiety that he feels all around him or the hate or disgust, in the midst of it all, when he pushes—gently if need be, with a hard hand if necessary—and receives exactly what he has needed or wanted to hear, that, that is the second that the feeling of triumph floods him.

It doesn’t come as often as he’d wish, Matt thinks, as he lets himself be dragged along by Vladimir to the kitchen.

And that’s why he hits the streets, to feel that triumph when the courtroom isn’t enough, because the power of righteousness in a courtroom doesn’t fulfill him enough, because the justice that should be served isn’t enough. (That’s what he tells himself; secretly, he knows he loves the power of it, being the one who directly serves the punishment, the justice).

As Vladimir drags him to one of the chairs, Matt thinks, ‘I’m a monster.’

But when he looks at Vladimir, he doesn’t feel as guilty.

Maybe.

“What you thinking, Matthew? Have not said a word.”

Rightfully so. Vladimir’s given him a big pill to swallow and mull over. Matt assesses. Why would Vladimir agree now to say yes? What changed?

Matt sets his jaw.

Vladimir was telling the truth, that much he knows, as Vladimir’s heart beat slightly faster than normal but steady. Matt looks at Vladimir again, who has been calmly putting out plates of food for both of them, and he doesn’t want to believe him.

Vladimir’s a kingpin, a man who’s been able to set a very many traps to get to the top, especially with his brother. He could just as easily be duping Matt here, as he’s likely duped thousands before him with ruses of all different kinds.

Their relationship’s been strained, and it had been building forward. This much Matt knows. And they were on the same page, even after his admission of his pains with Catholicism. Then why is it that this admission gets under his skin? Why does he find it hard to believe?

How can faith be so difficult for him if he has had faith his entire life? Why can’t he have faith in Vladimir?

Because he’s a monster.

Matt widens his eyes slightly as he realizes: who is he? Himself or Vladimir?

He can sense when he needs guidance—and another part of his mind worries at the thought that Vladimir has not said anything, has continued to eat silently beside him, has not attempted to initiate conversation past that brief interlude—and he aches to head back to the church for Father Lantom’s advice.

And Matt almost trembles. What if he is no longer allowed within its confines? What if he has sinned past the point of no return?

No, no, no, that doesn’t make sense. God is merciful, God is kind, but God is also wrathful—

And Matt doesn’t know when Vladimir moved to encompass him and pull him closer, but suddenly, Matt’s having a lot of difficulty breathing and he’s trembling and he feels a little like he’s spinning.

Will he be confined to hell for all eternity after he dies?

What if the work he’s doing isn’t enough? And what if, with his role as Daredevil, he’s pushing himself deeper into the pit? And will being with Vladimir push him away from acceptance and toward condemnation? Father Lantom said—

But the Church said that homosexuality is a sin.

And Matt, Matt can’t reconcile—

Vaguely, somewhere, he understands he’s having a panic attack. He’s obviously had them before, but he hates himself, hates himself for becoming this weak in front of Vladimir, for allowing his body to fail him like this, for being in Vladimir’s power.

He’s never hated something so much. And it hurts, tears him, claws at his innards, and everything is on fire.

Everything is always on fire, and Matt wants to laugh, but he finds himself crying, beginning to sob, Vladimir holding him close and whispering things and Matt doesn’t know what he’s saying. Matt only knows that it sounds faint, somewhere in the distance; he’s too trapped in the fire and the swirling wind of the flames.

He’s in hell, and my God, does he think he belongs there.

Everything, all the sins he’s committed, the comfort he has found with a man who controls his sight, controls him, it burns him, burns within his chest and no amount of tears and sobbing can alleviate it. It just hurts.

And Matt realizes that it’s been building, this slow ache has slowly eaten him, like a vulture savoring its meal, until the fire burned and burned and became an inferno.

Matt curls in on himself, curled in Vladimir’s embrace. He feels numb, and so, even curled in on himself, feels nothing.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until he slowly comes back to himself, heaving with breath, limp in Vladimir’s arms.

And he feels horribly ashamed and guilty and dirty.

“I shouldn’t want this,” Matt whispers.

“But you do,” Vladimir says. “Do not fight it.”

“Why?” Matt asks, and suddenly, he feels small, like a child.

He looks up at Vladimir.

Vladimir looks back at him, looks at the tear-stained face before him, the tears coating his eyelashes, the snot threatening to fall from his nose.

And he realizes that Matthew shines, even tear-stained and broken, and Vladimir internally kicks himself for never having seen it before. He knows Matthew thinks of himself as dirty, undeserving, especially when he’s most vulnerable.

Vladimir also realizes, and it clicks together now, that Matthew is not okay. Matthew has likely never been okay.

He doesn’t even bother to think about whether he himself is okay; he never was, never will be.

So when Vladimir uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe Matt’s nose, Matt laughs, a thin, bitter sound that radiates throughout the apartment. When Matt hears it, he cringes, and a slight whimper escapes him.

Vladimir pulls him closer.

“Vladimir, am I a monster?” Matthew asks of him.

And Vladimir is dumbstruck. What the hell is he supposed to tell this man? What the fuck does he do?

“No,” Vladimir says, tense, but he takes a deep breath, remembers a scene in his youth with his brat and says, gentler, “No,” and he wipes away tears with his thumb.

Matt droops against him, sniffles, and shuts his eyes.

“Matthew,” Vladimir says, tilting the man’s head up, encouraging him with a caress through his hair, and Matt opens his eyes.

“I know monsters,” Vladimir says. “You are not a monster. You are good.”

“Good?” Matt repeats up to him.

There’s not a single sound in Matt’s head, no thoughts, nothing, and so, he stares up at Vladimir, chin resting on his chest, eyes wide open. He floats.

“Good,” Vladimir agrees, a little breathlessly, slightly struck by the expression on Matt’s face. He has only seen that on one person, and it punches him in the gut.

Vladimir doesn’t realize how badly he has missed that expression. Trust.

Matt feels infinite, and the moment intimate in a way that they have never been. There’s no barriers up, and the realization speeds up Matt’s breathing and has him holding onto every word Vladimir says, mostly because most of the stuff that comes out of Vladimir’s mouth is complete, utter bullshit. He feels grateful at this peek into the real Vladimir, but he doesn’t want to analyze it, as that would require energy to pull back a stable state of mind.

“I have tried,” Vladimir says, “to fight.”

He huffs. “Desires. And I have failed. Is not easy. Is not fair. Not fair war.”

Vladimir isn’t tense, but almost languid around him as he says this, but Matt tenses in surprise. He stares up at Vladimir. “You dealt with this?” he asks, slightly breathless, looking into Vladimir’s blue eyes. They are candid.

“Was Christian,” he says. “Catholic,” he adds, gruff.

“Was?” Matt asks, almost timidly, and he feels a rumble of nausea in his stomach. He looks away.

Vladimir moves a hand to rest on Matt’s head, fingers scratching idly through Matt’s hair.

“Was,” Vladimir agrees.

So Matt doesn’t have a choice. He can feel the tears again, and he wants to hide, but Vladimir doesn’t let him.

“Does not mean ‘was’ for you,” Vladimir says, as Matt hides his face in Vladimir’s chest. “Faith is good. Works for some people.”

“Doesn’t work for you,” Matt whispers.

Vladimir makes a sound of agreement. “Myshka,” he says, “Do not worry. I—“

“You what?” Matt asks, looking up at Vladimir again. He wants to see Vladimir’s face.

Vladimir stumbles for a moment, but he says, “I take care of you.”

Matt rips away from him, losing sight as he goes.

“I don’t want to be taken care of!” he growls, fight-stance ready. “I can take care of myself.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Matt is thinking over the implications of Vladimir’s statement, over what this means for Vladimir and for what this means about what Vladimir has been through, and more importantly, what this means for himself. How did they both get here?

And he realizes with a bitter jolt that he has broken the moment between them, whatever it was. He has pulled himself out of… whatever that was.

Vladimir huffs angrily at him, and Matt can’t see what he looks like. He only knows Vladimir’s heart is beating a little erratically.

“Then you don’t need me,” Vladimir says, and he makes his way to the door.  
Utter terror overtakes Matt, and he feels little again, utterly dependent. “No!” he says, reaching out.

As he regains his sight when his hand travels to touch underneath Vladimir’s shirt, Matt is struck by how close the two are.

Vladimir holds him.

“You can’t leave,” Matt says.

Vladimir, for his part, says nothing other than, “Okay.”

Matt blinks up at Vladimir, sighs, and then rests his forehead against Vladimir’s chest, his other hand on Vladimir’s back.

Vladimir pulls him close, and says, “Come, myshka, we go.”

“Where?” Matt murmurs.

“Bed. To sleep,” Vladimir sighs, chin resting on Matt’s head.

“‘Kay,” Matt says, feeling young in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time.

He follows Vladimir to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I had a certain direction this story was heading in planned out, since before I even started writing it. And then the characters sort of did something that... pushed it in an entirely new direction.
> 
> Never, ever underestimate how many doors are open to you. You may feel forced to go through specific doors at some points, but there's always another way, even if you can't see it at the time. 
> 
> And sometimes the right thing to do is the hardest.


	17. No Vacancy Because of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladimir fights with expressions on his face, and then he settles. “Now you lucky.”
> 
> Matt curls in on himself slightly. He says nothing, but he doesn’t feel that lucky, not when he has all these issues to face and the lack of power over his sight to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy, I'm back!
> 
> I finally finished college, so now I can actually devote more time to this story. Thank you for everyone who has stuck along so far!
> 
> Title from No Vacancy by OneRepublic.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Sleep comes easily, quickly after Vladimir pulls him to bed. Curled within Vladimir’s embrace, he feels safe, safer than when he learned how to fight, than having Stick as his faux-father before Stick banished that thought to hell before it could take root.

Vladimir is thick, warm, and he curls farther into the warmth between them, going so far as to tangling his legs with Vladimir’s. Matt doesn’t care how uncomfortable this may be for Vladimir, if at all; he wants warmth, closeness, _safety_. 

Vladimir, for his part, doesn’t kick him away when Matt tangles his legs but pulls him closer. Vladimir pulls Matt’s hands in between his own, and his dry lips briefly touch Matt’s knuckles. He caresses Matt’s hands before releasing one to reach around Matt to ruffle his hair as he gently pushes Matt’s head to rest around his shoulder and chest.

And when Matt releases a sigh and his body relaxes, Vladimir places a kiss on Matt’s forehead.

And they fall asleep together, with Vladimir’s hand in Matt’s hair.

 

And when they awaken, tangled together, Matt doesn’t know what Vladimir’s reaction will be.

Will he run from this? Will he pull him closer when he realizes?

Matt is so, so _tired._ He doesn’t want to guess Vladimir’s reactions anymore. He doesn’t really want to think anymore, so Matt intentionally blanks his mind and lays close to Vladimir. He doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t care. He’ll enjoy the closeness while he can.

“ _Myshka,”_ Vladimir mumbles, “You think too much,” and nuzzles into him.

“Can’t really stop,” Matt mumbles in return, biting his lip and hiding his face.

Vladimir huffs. “Too early…”

Matt doesn’t dignify that with a response.

 

And the next time, it’s Matt’s alarm that awakens him. When he shuts it off, he finds Vladimir rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other automatically held in his hand.

Matt shivers at the cold of the air, and Vladimir immediately puts on a shit-eating grin, “Cold, eh? I can fix.”

Matt colors. “No, that’s okay. I have to get ready for work.”

But he’s still sitting in the bed, unwilling to let go of Vladimir’s hand.

Vladimir doesn’t let him think it through; he’s up across the bed and pulls Matt farther into bed, up in his space, pushing him down against the bed.

Vladimir’s leaning over Matt in between his legs, one hand still held in Matt’s hand.

Intimacy, he can’t do. But sex, sex he’s good at, Vladimir knows. 

“Volodya, no,” Matt says, aroused but frightened.

And Vladimir pulls back, almost away, but the hand stops him. 

Any good humor is gone, and Vladimir won’t meet his eyes.

“I meant, no, not yet,” Matt amends.

He’s not ready. 

He’s just not.

He has to deal with a few issues before he can even start thinking in that direction. And Vladimir may move forward with ease, because he has to, because that’s how he learned to survive, but Matt somehow has to restructure his entire life and every belief he’s ever had and that, that’s going to take _time._

He looks at Vladimir, unable to explain this, but fully knowing that he’ll have to to avoid hurting him. He makes it simple.

“I’m not ready, Vlad,” Matt says.

Vladimir nods, and pulls Matt off the bed. They stand together and Matt, in a rare gesture of reaching out, hugs him one-handed, burrowing his face in Vladimir. 

Vladimir tenses, but then his body melts and he ruffles Matt’s hair with his free hand. 

“I have to piss,” Vladimir says, and Matt can’t hide a smile, chuckling as he raises his head away from Vladimir’s shirt.

“Go,” Matt says, in good humor.

He lets go of Vladimir’s hand, and although he reenters his world of fire, he doesn’t feel as bad knowing he can switch between the two worlds he has access to.

Vladimir’s heart speeds up, and Matt knows he’s either surprised or waiting for Matt to lash out, but Matt just pushes him toward the bathroom, and gets to work finding his suit for the day. 

“Don’t want to slip in your piss,” Matt says, mouth curved in a grin, heart thumping, and Vladimir huffs a laugh before shaking his head and heading into the bathroom.

When Matt finishes getting ready, he walks out to Vladimir preparing breakfast. He can smell it in the air, and it smells like eggs and meat.

Matt doesn’t recall buying either of those products, but he figures Vladimir must have bought them… With what money?

He wants to ask but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment, the easiness that he feels in the apartment. It feels lived-in for once.

“Can I help?” Matt asks, hearing the sizzling of the eggs in the pan.

Vladimir laughs aloud. “You? Help in kitchen? You burn things, I know. And blow them up. No,” Vladimir laughs, “No.”

Matt’s almost affronted. “I can cook,” he says, climbing into the seat.

“I cook for you,” Vladimir says, placing a glass of water in front of Matthew.

“Drink,” Vladimir commands.

Matt doesn’t question the order, in too good of a mood to question the power play. 

He feels young again, and imagines that this is how he would have felt had his father cooked for him more often instead of ordering takeout almost every day. He was never served, not like this, discounting restaurants and middle school and high school lunch times. And those times weren’t intimate, not like this.

Matt feels fear fill him. He doesn’t _want_ to like being taken care of. He can do it himself; he’s learned, and he’s capable. Surely, Vladimir knows that…

But Matt puts away his fear for a moment and thinks logically. Vladimir has been largely useless since his brother has passed away. He has been crashing on Matt’s couch and causing a general ruckus wherever he goes.

Maybe…

Maybe Vladimir needs control of something to feel useful again.

But isn’t control of his sight control enough?

“What are you thinking, Matthew?” Vladimir asks, and his voice is chiding.

“Nothing,” Matt answers, pastes on a fake smile. “Just wondering how good your cooking could possibly be if it’s better than mine.”

Vladimir grabs his hand that rests on the glass, and says, eyes bright, “My cooking make you feel like home.”

And Matt doesn’t have it in him to dull those eyes. “Let’s find out,” he says instead, mouth curving into a grin again.

When Vladimir lays the plate in front of him filled with eggs, what looks like sausage, and dill, and Matt’s mouth waters. Vladimir looks at him triumphantly, like he _already knows_ he’s won. Two can play at this game.

Matt takes a bite of the dish, and flavor explodes across his tongue. Oh, how’s he going to lie about _this?_

He forces himself to school his expression, and says, “Could be better,” shooting Vladimir a suppressed smile after Vladimir looks affronted.

He can’t hold it back anymore and he laughs. “It’s good, _Volodya._ Very good,” Matt says, mirth loosening his muscles. “What is it? Where did you learn?”

“ _Syrniki_. Taught myself,” Vladimir says. “Had brother to feed.” 

Matt loses some of his mirth, and he understands. “Your brother was very lucky,” Matt says, treading carefully.

“Was.” Vladimir fights with expressions on his face, and then he settles. “Now you lucky.”

Matt curls in on himself slightly. He says nothing, but he doesn’t feel that lucky, not when he has all these issues to face and the lack of power over his sight to understand. He really, really thought it was God who would have that power. He hates that’s he’s wrong.

“Wait, what time is it?” Matt asks.

Vladimir pulls his phone out of his pocket, and shows Matt the screen.

Matt isn’t running late, but he should be leaving soon. 

“Thank you for breakfast, Vladimir.”

“It is no problem, Matthew.”

He doesn’t want to let go of his hand, but Vladimir caresses his hand with his thumb and gently lets go. “Go,” he says.

Matt nods, slightly bitter at being unable to see Vladimir’s expression, but gets up to gather his things. And then he leaves.


	18. Way Down We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt melts right into him, fear pumping through his veins. Fear at his admissions, fear at trusting the wrong person—Vladimir could easily use this against him for the rest of his life, and tell everyone, and they would think him weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Way Down We Go by Kaleo.

He finds that Vladimir is missing when he returns, and Matt feels relief at the prospect of being alone. He hasn’t had time to think, time to truly process, and he’s not sure how much processing he could have done flanked by Vladimir at home. 

He grabs his duffel, stuffs gym clothes into it, and walks to his favorite gym. He’ll beat the living hell out of whatever he can get his hands on today, just to feel stable again. 

He doesn’t want to think about the direction he and Vladimir are heading into, what troubles and hurdles await them, _what Father Lantom would say if he knew._

Matt shudders at the mere idea of it. 

But he knows how to keep secrets, knows how to carve them deep into his muscles and have them grow over the scars. He knows. It’ll just be another secret, just another—

How many things will he have to lie about, will he be able to lie about until he cracks? _Will_ he crack? As a human being, the answer is yes.

But maybe that devil inside him might be useful for something. Maybe it can hoard all the secrets, like the fact that Vladimir arouses him when he touches him.

Matt shakes away the thought process, chilled with the direction his thoughts have taken. He can feel himself falling further away from his roots.

Matt knows the way to Fogwell’s Gym in his bones, so when he finally reaches his destination, he’s slightly surprised, having been so lost in thought about what comes next with Vladimir.

He shakes off everything, changes into his clothes in the men’s locker room, and feels that calm settle over him when he’s to enter a fight. 

The focus is single-minded, and Matt loves it, loves the crash of flesh on the punching bag. A primal part of him likes the slap of flesh against flesh, the sick _crack_ of a breaking nose, or the shuttering crackles of breaking fingers.

Matt doesn’t like to admit it to himself, as he knows how _wrong_ it is to like that sort of violence and the power that comes with it.

_He sometimes fears that he would enjoy killing_ but he banishes the thought quickly, knowing how unfounded it is. Thou shalt not kill. The rule is clear and simple; the focus is clear and simple.

So when Matt finishes his workout for the day, arms ringing with waves of pressure and pleasure, thighs invigorated with movement, he heads to the shower to wash off all the sweat.

And as he turns the knob on, warm water rushing over his lean frame, he finds himself thinking of himself under Vladimir and the soft caress of his hands, of being taken care of in flashes, and he jumps.

That was _not_ what he had intended for himself today. It was to be— not _this._

Matt turns the knob and feels cold water rush over him. His burgeoning erection thankfully isn’t insistent and he sighs in relief when he steps out of the shower, toweling off and into his clothes.

He already knows that the image of Vladimir looming over him sensually is an image he won’t forget, not for a while.

Stupid, to think that he could block it from his mind.

When he gets back, Vladimir _is_ at his apartment and it smells delicious, whatever he’s cooking.

“Matthew,” Vladimir says, and he’s at his side in a few crosses of the room. “Where you go?”

“The gym,” Matt answers, feeling the power rush through him as Vladimir’s hand rests on his cheek.

Vladimir grunts in affirmation.

“What did you make?” Matt asks, as Vladimir slides his other hand into Matt’s and removes his hand from his cheek.

“Russian dish. You will like,” Vladimir says, and leads him to the island in the kitchen. “Is little cold because you were late, but still good.”

Matt rankles, but Vladimir shoots him a teasing grin and he relaxes.

As he seats himself, he quickly realizes the problem: Vladimir is holding his right hand, the hand he eats with, and eating with his other will prove awkward.

Vladimir notices his hesitance, and says, “Is good. I promise.”

Matt laughs softly. “No, Vladimir, you’re holding the hand I eat with.”

Vladimir stiffens in understanding, and he gets up to move to Matt’s other side, but Matt grips his hand unconsciously, remembering the image of Vladimir looming over him.

Matt’s mouth runs dry, and they stare into each other’s eyes. Matt’s eyes flick back and forth as do Vladimir’s.The moment stretches on, until Vladimir sits and removes his hand only to touch skin under Matt’s shirt.

Matt gasps at the sensation of skin on skin, as does Vladimir. They exhale, and Matt picks up the fork to dig into the food. Taste explodes on his tongue, and he can’t help but let out a slight moan. He chews and swallows and says, “This is so good, Vladimir.”

Vladimir preens. “I make good food. Always.”

“For you,” he tacks on, and the atmosphere returns to include the tension of moments earlier.

He keeps eating, hoping it’ll fade.

“Have you eaten yet, Vladimir?”

“Already eaten. Not slowpoke like you,” he says.

Matt huffs a laugh. “You can’t blame me for getting a workout in, Vlad.”

“I blame you,” Vladimir says.

Matt huffs another laugh, shaking his head. He continues to finish the rest of his dish, almost inhaling the food as he’s very hungry and it’s just that good.

He also knows he’s going to need the energy fighting crime tonight. He needs to be more on the streets, feels he hasn’t been out there enough lately. And the guilt falls right back into place, of knowing he doesn’t want and wants to do the very thing that his soul fights over doing.

“Matthew, stop thinking,” Vladimir says, his thumb caressing his back.

Matt slumps slightly at the touch. “I can’t,” he says.

“Try,” Vladimir says, moving closer to Matt, moving his arm around his waist.

He inhales, exhales deeply and lets whatever that was on his mind go. He can deal with it later. 

“Fine,” he says, smiling, looking into Vladimir’s eyes.

Vladimir grunts an affirmative, and looks away.

As Matt finishes his food, he rests the fork onto the plate and it clinks in the comfortable silence they share. Butt Matt realizes he’s still tense, especially with the hot feel of Vladimir’s hand on his bare back.

Matt adjusts himself, realizing he’s become slightly aroused. He wants to peek at Vladimir to see if he feels the same, but shame creeps up his body and he does not.

He’ll forever ask himself why he wants this; he’ll continuously overthink everything until he’s had contingency plan upon contingency plan, until he comes to a solution between both worlds. But he knows with a creeping despair that there is no way to truly balance them. One will always threaten to overcome the other.

His desire to _fight,_ to fight crime in the dead of night and seek justice, may overcome his desire to fight for justice on the side of the law. His desire for light from Vladimir, from closeness to Vladimir, may eventually overcome his desire to be clean in the eyes of God. The devil may overtake the angel.

Matt’s never been an angel.

Matt shudders at the thought of it, the sheer _wrong_ of all of it that hits him.

“Matthew,” Vladimir admonishes.

Matt turns to him and looks into his eyes. “I wish I could stop. I wish I could turn it off,” he says, looks away, running his hands through his hair. He huffs a disbelieving laugh and says, “But I can’t. It never goes away. Sometimes, unless I’m with you. But— But even then,” and Matt looks up, “even then I can’t stop thinking about—“ he stutters to a halt.

Oh God, does he really want to discuss this? _Now?_ Just when they’ve had things just be _okay_ for a while? 

Matt always was a self-sacrificing idiot when it came to love.

Matt’s eyes widen at the prospect of the concept he’s just handed himself.

Vladimir looks at him, moves a hand to his cheek and asks, “Thinking about what?”

Vladimir’s eyes flit between his own, no doubt concerned at Matt’s sudden fear.

Matt exhales quickly, looking away, and Vladimir goes to move his hand away from Matt’s cheek, but Matt’s hand keeps him in place. Matt shakes—he’s never initiated this much closeness before, not unless he was falling apart.

Vladimir looks at him. Just looks. And Matt makes himself brave enough to finish his sentence as he looks into his eyes. “You,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And—“his breath catches, and his eyes avert, “How you want to take care of me.”

The images of it flood his mind, to fast to really focus on, until they disappear.

Matt exhales, but looks him in the eyes again, eyes steeling. “I can take care of myself. I know how; I’ve been doing it for far longer than I even know you existed.”

“But—“ he stops.

The courage crumbles and Matt wants to move away, to hide.

“But?” Vladimir asks softly.

Vladimir doesn’t want to fuck this up. Whatever this is, this is important to Matt, important enough that he feels the need to share rather than keep things to himself. Vladimir forces himself to stay open to this moment, to not laugh it away with a stupid joke, to channel his inner older brother helping Anatoly. He missed this, as soul-baringly frightening as it was.

As Matthew shakes within his hands, Vladimir realizes how much he truly does not want this man in front of him to fear. Matthew fears many things, and Vladimir would not admit it, but he himself does as well. That Matthew can reveal these things to him, Vladimir realizes, means he _trusts_ him.

And that feeling of being the one to take care of someone floods him again. He pulls Matthew farther into his embrace, not to close him in but to gentle his fears.

“But?” he asks again.

“But maybe…” he whispers, “I like— his voice catches, “being taken care of sometimes.”

“I spent so long by myself, Vlad,” he laughs disbelievingly, and tries to pull away. “I’m crazy.”

Vladimir tightens his grip and says, “Not crazy. You ask for safety. That is not crazy.”

“I’m a grown man, Vladimir,” Matt scoffs, eyes tearing up.

“A man on his own,” Vladimir says.

Vladimir tilts Matt’s face down and places a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Not on his own anymore.”

Matt melts right into him, fear pumping through his veins. Fear at his admissions, fear at trusting the wrong person—Vladimir could easily use this against him for the rest of his life, and tell everyone, and they would think him _weak._

Matt pulls away, and says, “I’m not weak. I’m _not!”_

Vladimir laughs, dismissing his words with with a wave. “Did not say you were. Fight like beast. How could man who cannot see but can fight like beast be weak? No,” Vladimir shakes his head.

“I know what weak means. In prison, you cry and they fuck you. But you fight and fight good, they leave you alone. We are not in prison, Matthew. We are in your home. We are,” Vladimir shrugs, “eh, safe, for time being.”

Matt searches Vladimir’s eyes, and then he slumps, a tear or two escaping his eyes. He wipes them away quickly, but he knows, as Vladimir is right in front of him, that Vladimir has seen this _weakness,_ although he refuses to call it that. Matt wonders when Vladimir will use this against him.

“Matthew,” Vladimir admonishes again, and pushes Matt’s head to rest on Vladimir’s shoulder.

Matt slumps against him, wrapping his arms around his frame, while Vladimir scruffs his hair, leaning his chin on Matt’s head.

This close, Matt wants to be touched. He can feel the tendrils of arousal really take hold of him, but he’s too tired to fight it after such an admission. He wants to kiss Vladimir, wants his hands to go under Vladimir’s shirt.

So he does what his body wants. Doesn’t think, like Vladimir has asked him to.

Vladimir startles in surprise at the feel of Matt’s soft lips against his, but he does not push him away. Vladimir, instead, pulls Matt from his seat, and pull him into his lap. His dick twitches in interest at the hard lines of muscle on his thighs.

He moves one hand right back under Matt’s shirt, and the other in his hair. Matt pulls away from Vladimir, his lips pink, swollen, and spit-slick, his eyes boring into Vladimir’s who surges to meet his lips again and his hand finding its way to Matt’s hip.

They make out for some time, Vladimir fearing that if he moves, Matt will hide away, and pulling Matt out of his guilt is a challenge he has already met for the day, so he stays in his seat, even if his body cries in protest.

Matt parts, “I want—“

“What? What you want?” Vladimir asks quickly, hand roaming Matt’s back. He wants that shirt off of him, but he will _not_ push.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Matt says, pained confusion changing his face.

Vladimir pants to catch his breath, and then, after seconds of deliberation, gently holds Matt and asks, “Let me take care of you?”

Matt sucks in a breath, stiffening, and, after staring into Vladimir’s eyes, seeing the truth there, the safety of him, Matt feels himself slowly fade into a blank, calming state and nods once, stiffly.

Vladimir pushes Matt off of him, but grabs his hand, and to the bedroom they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about time these boys did something other than talk.


	19. Better Start Runnin’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt seems like a boy, not like a man, sitting there, pliant underneath his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, you guys! I've been everywhere over the past... I don't even know. Figuring out life is hARD. ;)
> 
> I don't remember what the song title is from LOL. 
> 
> EDIT: The song title is from No Good by Kaleo!

Vladimir pulls Matt gently into the room, and closes the door behind him. He already has ideas of what he wants to do this man in front of him, has for a brief while.

Instead, Vladimir’s been entertaining fantasies, but they all involve taking care of Matt in a way he has never really thought about for any of his lovers. They were means to an end, a good fuck and nothing else. He’s not even sure he should call them lovers, as he can’t entirely recall getting too close to anyone throughout his entire life. 

And with an empire to build, a brother to take care of, and people to frighten, there wasn’t much time on his list for building relationships that wouldn’t build the empire.

But if he’s going to do this, if he’s going to build Matt—and Vladimir thinks, as he leads Matt to the bed and seats him on the edge of it—then he might have to break him first.

Fortunately, that breaking part has already been done for him; it was the first part of what they knew for each other. Vladimir must rebuild him.

And to do that he might have to allow him to melt under his ministrations. 

Vladimir wants to suck him, suck him dry, and watch his body tighten to prepare for joyful release. He wants to hear him moan, and whimper, wants to see his legs quiver—like a girl’s legs do.

Vladimir bends onto his knees, and Matt stares at him wide-eyed. 

“What are you gonna do?” Matt asks, his voice taking a pitch higher than his normal tones.

Vladimir suspects that Matt doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Going to make you feel good, _myshka_ ,” Vladimir says, smiling right back up at his—

Matt seems like a boy, not like a man, sitting there, pliant underneath his hands.

One hand still held in Matt’s, the other reaches for the button for Matt’s pants. There’s already a visible bulge there, and Vladimir likes to think it gets bigger as Matt gasps at the implication.

“Oh,” he says, soft, barely a sound.

He unbuttons Matt’s pants, and runs into the brief problem of unzipping them, which he solves with a simple command: “Help me unzip your pants, _myshka_.”

The command rebounds around the room, silent but filling with a sort of tense power. It’s the voice he uses to command his men, the one he uses without all the extra yelling. It does the trick, as Matt uses his free hand to hold onto the pants while Vladimir pulls the zipper down, the sound reverberating in the still room.

Vladimir grabs a leg and gently pulls. Matt raises himself to his full height and Vladimir pulls down the pants, snatching the fabric and tugging them to fall under his knees. He grabs the waistband of Matt’s underwear, and looks into Matt’s eyes. “Can I?” he asks.

“Yes,” Matt says, and the tight black shorts join the pants.

Matt’s penis stands at attention, sizable but curved, dainty almost and Vladimir hungers. He feels his own dick harden—as if it wasn’t so hard already—and he gently pushes Matt back onto the bed.

“Ready, _myshka?”_

“Yes, Volodya.”

Vladimir inhales and he thinks how ready he is to blow his load already, but he holds. Matt first.

Vladimir nods, and he goes in, kissing up Matt’s thigh, hand resting lightly on the other.

Matt gasps at the sensation, feeling stubble and warmth caress his inner thigh, getting closer and closer to his groin. He’s had women with soft faces do this to him before, but he had no idea— _no idea—_ that this could feel so _good._

He lets out a whimper as Vladimir noses near the tangle of hair at his dick, legs spreading wider to allow Vladimir easier access.

And when Vladimir’s hand comes up to play with his balls, he all but lets out a moan at the touch as Vladimir touches that spot just near the base of his dick—God, does he want him to go _faster._

“More, please, Volodya, _please,”_ Matt begs, as Vladimir just teases and teases.

Vladimir stops, and his eyes harden as they catch Matt’s. There are no words between them, but Matt already knows, already knows that he is pushing and that Vladimir will give him this at his own pace.

"I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking away, but his arousal still runs strong.

Vladimir grunts in affirmation and with a wicked grin, he takes Matt into his mouth.

“Oh,” Matt moans, one hand clutching Vladimir’s tightly, the other clutching the sheets, hands white either way.

Vladimir sucks lightly on the head, and Matt’s toes curl, and he whimpers. “Please, please, please,” he begs, and Vladimir slides off with a pop.

Vladimir licks a stripe down his hand, and he strokes the velvet skin of Matt’s dick, hand moving as he pushes the head right back into his mouth. He licks the slit and Matt moans again.

Slowly, slowly, Vladimir strokes and sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, and he takes in more of Matt’s dick, as much as he can, and Matt pants and whimpers as Vladimir handles his balls.

The warmth around him engulfs him, and Matt can feel himself ascending, his body pulling together taut, “Vladimir, Vladimir, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” Matt chants and at the height of it, he comes, come shooting in spurts down Vladimir’s throat.

Vladimir swallows him down, stroking softly through the shocks and even after. Matt twitches at the touches, and finally goes boneless as Vladimir stops working him.

Which is when Vladimir realizes that he himself has come in his pants, likely around the same time Matt did.

Vladimir wipes his face with his hand, and Matt stares down at him, sated and floating. He is easy to maneuver on the bed, and Vladimir takes care of him. He pulls at Matt’s socks and his pants and underwear, and drops them to the ground.

Matt, naked and languid, curls to his side and pulls Vladimir to him. “Volodya,” he says.

Vladimir moves closer to leave a chaste kiss on Matt’s forehead as Matt floats. He huffs a laugh as Matt whines when Vladimir moves away.

Vladimir sheds his bottoms as he quickly as he can, but doesn’t dare let go of Matt’s hand, so his and Matt’s shirts both remain. He kisses Matt’s hand, and drops to the bed lying close to Matt.

Matt tangles his legs between Vladimir’s and closes his eyes. “So good,” he whispers. 

Vladimir puts his arm around Matt, hand traveling underneath to touch his sweaty skin.

“I take care of you,” Vladimir says, and for once, Matt feels nothing but safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) 
> 
> Uh, I think I accidentally ended this story? So there's one chapter left for this part of the series, at least. (We'll find out when I read the chapter and see if it makes sense tomorrow LMAO).
> 
> But I think, down the road, I'm probably gonna write a sequel detailing their sexual escapades and the new dynamic that's emerging between them. That's just too interesting to pass up.
> 
> But right now, I have to start focusing on my career (which no longer has anything to do with medicine and everything to do with teaching myself e v e r y t h i n g).


	20. Victims of Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to choose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Kings and Queens by 30 Seconds to Mars.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

When he wakes, it’s to tangled sheets and and tangled flesh. When he opens his eyes to look at the man lying heavy in front of him, he feels— 

Peace, and then a horrible guilt churn his stomach. Oh my God. What has he done. What—

Matt pulls himself away from Vladimir, sight ripping from him as he goes. His nakedness shames his further and he moves around the room, blind, looking for his outfit. He was supposed to fight, he was supposed to go out, how could he have _possibly_ allowed himself to fall like this?

Distantly, Matt hears Vladimir stirring in bed. “ _Myshka,_ come to bed,” Vladimir says, words muffled in the pillow.

Matt ignores him, and pulls on the costume, feeling the fabric in his fingers, letting it ground him. It’s rough, and it assuages the guilt, if only slightly. He thinks nothing else, having his ears do the listening for him, stretching the distance to as far as it will go. 

He feels tears in his eyes, tears start to roll down his cheeks, and he’s so focused on outside that he doesn’t hear Vladimir grab onto his wrist.

Matt pulls away from him, the power leaving him again. It’s disorientating and he hates the feel of it leaving again and again and again, and Matt gets angry, gets furious.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, tone coloring his words dark, nearing cruel.

Matt stops, as Vladimir pulls himself away. 

“I leave door unlocked,” he says, and he flops back onto the bed.

Pure pain whitens and tightens his chest. It explodes upward, and Matt tries to blindly see past it. He breathes, takes a breath or two, and leaves. 

 

He finds himself running rather than truly fighting anyone, anything. The streets are cursedly, blessedly empty and there’s an unborn pain pushing him forward, onward as he scales rooftops and alleys and street corners. 

Matt wants to run past Hell’s Kitchen, the ten blocks he calls home, because it’s been soiled. He soiled it himself, like he soiled the sheets, his bed, himself, and Vladimir, more soiled than anything but unafraid to get dirtier. 

Matt feels the pull within him to go darker, deeper, to find the clinical calm and detachment. The devil calls him and he roils with it, feeling that white-cut, steel-straight power of his soul dancing with the devil.  

They entwine, and he jousts with it.

The foundation of everything he’s ever known slips out from underneath his feet, and the present outside world is just as kind. 

 

Matt trips and he flies. He tumbles over the edge of a building—and white-hot panic bursts in his chest to replace the air he so desperately needs, and his hands grasp, grasp for anything, metal solid— _like Vladimir’s scarred chest_ _—_ and his hands catch on rungs.

He makes a hell of a lot of noise going down, and Matt turns off and disconnects from his thoughts. He needs to get out of here and go home. He needs to rethink everything.

And he can’t do that with Vladimir filling the empty spaces of his apartment with his solid, inflexible self. He can’t do that with Vladimir’s essence reaching and filling into his cracks, the essence like rotted grout used to fill a boundary. He _cannot_ let the devil win.

But by the grace of God does he want to. He _wants_ to, he _wants to, he wants to…_  

Hands and body aching from the fall, Matt, pulling off his mask, returns home, his bruises and ego pulsing deep with pain and shame, respectively, to find Vladimir sitting up on their bed—( _their????)—_ the bed is _his!_

He can feel Vladimir’s patience filling the room as he stands in the doorway.

Matt must have started crying again at some point, because there are tears unbidden in his eyes and warmth rolling down his cheeks. He wants to go to Vladimir to ensconce himself in a protective hug, but how can he seek refuge in that that seeks to destroy him?

So he stands. And with a hot-knife pain, that kind that spreads melted butter smooth-roughly on a piece of toast, sliding on every nerve ending he has in his chest, Matt says, “Get out,” tone as watery as the tears on his cheeks.

And Vladimir turns to him—Matt can feel his gaze hotly on his face and tears come faster—

“You’ve ruined me,” Matt says, and he sobs.

Vladimir moves past him like water moving past a boulder. He finds the couch, and Matt turns, slides the door shut, and hides another sob behind his hands as he seats himself on the bed.

And he turns to God this time, because he has no other. Not even Father Lantom can help a sinner like him escape the mess. And he begs for forgiveness, for kindness, for a charity he received little of, for an understanding beyond his means, for the pain to stop, oh God, the _pain_ to stop, and to allow himself to get what he receives. Surely, this is not it—hell is coming, but _is_ not here, as of yet.  

He _wants_ and not just Vladimir, not just to be Daredevil, not just the battles, but the littler things, the things that make all the difference. He wants the right to a life of his own—his own what? His own _choosing_ _._ He wants his _life._ And he wants to be able to _spend_ it. He wants to _choose._

He wants to _choose._

 

 

The following day is painfully quiet, the silence like a congealed blood clot not yet dry. Vladimir is on the couch, but there are no smells from the kitchen, no morning goodness. It is empty, and Matt almost resents it.

He _does_ resent it, resents the acrid way he leaks his insecurities upon someone who tempts but does not choose for him. The choice is his, and he knows what he wants.  

Matt stands in front of a Vladimir still sitting staring off.

“Volodya,” he says, and Vladimir’s attention snaps to him, a gluttony of emotions flicking across his face like a magician switches through cards. Matt doesn’t stop to decipher them. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the moment climaxes painfully to a burden not unlike Atlas’ support of the universe.

But the tension dissipates when Matt says, “I shouldn’t have kicked you out.”

Vladimir opens his mouth to speak, and Matt knows because of the small, telltale intake of breath he takes. But Matt steamrolls gracefully over him. “I made a choice, and I shouldn’t keep blaming you for the outcome, the out _comes_. I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”

The split-second pause is brittle enough to crumble peace treaties between nations. 

“But I owe this to myself.” And Matt’s breath shakes as he says, “I _want_ this. I _want_ you. If you’ll have me.”

Vladimir rises and he places a gentle hand on Matt’s elbow. They gasp as the power rushes through both of them, and Vladimir nods, and leans in.

There’s a panic that Matt tamps down but it’s for nothing because Vladimir closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Matt’s.

“We go too fast,” he says, and Matt’s frame slumps with relief.

Matt’s other hand fists the fabric at the small of Vladimir’s back and he lets himself be guided into a hug.

There is no fear.

There is no wrong.

There is only what you _choose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing this chapter physically hurt me. 
> 
> This completes the first part of this series. The next part will be when it next feels right to write for it. 
> 
> Thank you all for following me on this journey watching two idiots start to fall in love, and watching two idiots overcome themselves and become ready to start a new chapter in their lives.
> 
> I'll see ya'll next time cuz ya can't get off the mattimir train THAT easy.


End file.
